|Not Eating Tide Pods
||[Jan. 21st, 2018|08:55 pm]
The rain started falling not long after nightfall, but hasn't started falling very hard yet. Around midday we were treated to a splendid sky, with dark, blue-gray clouds around the horizon in every direction, but an expansive, bright dome above, with an unbroken mass of thin clouds allowing the sun to pass so that shadows were distinct, but no hint of clear blue sky anywhere. |
Half an hour later the dark clouds from the horizon had spread everywhere except for a long, narrow strip of pale clouds which had moved above the mountains. Later it turned into a conventional gray day, getting colder and colder. It's been getting colder ever since. It almost feels cold enough to snow right now, but it might not actually get quite that cold tonight.
The next storm, which arrives Wednesday, might get that cold though. The forecast shows a window of opportunity for snow from three o'clock Thursday morning until noon. If it happens and I'm awake I'll get to see the snow actually falling. It's been along time since I've seen a real snowfall by daylight. I just hope the power stays on, because watching from a cold house would diminish the pleasure considerably.
But the next storm promised to be wetter than this one as well as colder, so we should be getting some snowpack built up on the mountains. Probably not enough to catch up with the seasonal normal for this time of year, but it will help.
I'm still worried about the likelihood of water shortages next summer. It was such a luxury to be able to water as much as I needed last summer.
But I am running late again. There are murders on television tonight. Only crude, tacky American murders at nine o'clock, but there will be stylish English murders at eleven. They will be my reward for having watched those crude, tacky American murders. It's called paying dues.
A Note Left on the Door
by Mary Oliver
There are these: the blue
skirts of the ocean walking in now, almost
to the edge of town,
and a thousand birds, in their incredible wings
which they think nothing of, crying out
that the day is long, the fish are plentiful.
And friends, being as kind as friends can be,
striving to lift the darkness.
Forgive me, Lord of honeysuckle, of trees,
of notebooks, of typewriters, of music,
that there are also these:
the lover, the singer, the poet
asleep in the shadows.
Well put. I think that's how I see her too. Truth to tell, I tend to prefer less demanding poems. As I've said to you before, I have a hard time figuring out what the knottier ones are trying to tell me. :D