“Winter’s” last g(r)asp?

I know. It seems as though I keep going on about the weather, but let me provide a clear context. Winter season is officially over. It is now spring. All winter of 2023-24, our official snow total was 14.3 inches The forecast is we’ll get more than that amount over the next week or so, mixed with rain. Three months of winter exceeded by one week of spring! Gimme a break!

the back yard a year ago

Photo by J. Harrington

Fuel tanks on tractor (diesel) and snow blower (gas) have been topped off. Each has been started. Now we wait and see what comes, hoping most of the precipitation falls as rain. Most of the state is droughty and, until we get wet and green, the fire danger is moderate to high. Early this morning a bird song from a tree in front of the house could have been a territorial defense or a warning to “Get out while you can!” For that matter, the latter, if heeded, is a way of achieving the former. Clever bird.

The dogs, after an essentially snowless winter, are going to be quite disconcerted at having to cope with white stuff all over the ground as they go to take care of business, especially the short-legged beagle, if we actually get the 9 ± inches forecast for Sunday.

Since you’ve stayed with me this long, this confession may come as no surprise at all. By this time of year, almost every year, I’m like a little kid stuck in the back seat for a too long journey. No matter how wonderful the destination, in fact the more wonderful, the more frequent the whiny question: “Are we there yet? When will we get there? I’m tired!!!!” 

Spring Snow

By Linda Gregerson

A kind of counter- 

blossoming, diversionary, 

doomed, and like 

the needle with its drop 

of blood a little 

too transparently in 

love with doom, takes 

issue with the season: Not 

(the serviceberry bright 

with explanation) not 

(the redbud unspooling 

its silks) I know I've read 

the book but not (the lilac, 

the larch) quite yet, I still 

have one more card to 

play. Behold 

a six-hour wonder: six 

new inches bedecking the 

railing, the bench, the top 

of the circular table like 

a risen cake. The saplings 

made (who little thought 

what beauty weighs) to bow 

before their elders. 

The moment bears more 

than the usual signs of its own 

demise, but isn't that 

the bravery? Built 

on nothing but the self- 

same knots of air 

and ice. Already 

the lip of it riddled 

with flaws, a sort 

of vascular lesion that 

betokens—what? betokens 

the gathering return 

to elementals. (She 

was frightened 

for a minute, who had 

planned to be so calm.) 

A dripline scoring 

the edge of the walk. 

The cotton batting blown 

against the screen begun 

to pill and molt. (Who 

clothed them out of 

mercy in the skins 

of beasts.) And even 

as the last of the 

lightness continues 

to fall, the seepage 

underneath has gained 

momentum. (So that 

there must have been a 

death before 

the death we call the 

first or what became 

of them, the ones 

whose skins were taken.) 

Now the more- 

of-casting-backward-than-of- 

forward part, which must 

have happened while I wasn't 

looking or was looking 

at the skinning knives. I think 

I'll call this mercy too.

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