21 November 2023 (no snow)

no snow yet . . .

our new amaryllis

clashes with the mums

23 November 2021 (star)

rain not snow . . .

some stars knocked askew

on the town Christmas tree

March 12: Cloning extinct species

Sleet streaks my window.

Eyes closed, I try to 

imagine living mammoths.

I read today in the New York Times Magazine about a fascinating project to restore extinct animals. Something about trying to bring mammoths and Passenger Pigeons back into an overdeveloped world undergoing global warming troubles me. So many species still here simply require some care and conservation attention to not go extinct: endangered Piping Plovers being run off beaches, prairie chickens being closed out of habitat by cattle ranchers, white rhinos in Africa, right whales, elephants...

I know, I'm no fun for thinking this way. Where's my creative spirit? We killed them off, but we can bring them back! But this, to me, doesn't seem all that different from Monsanto's genetically engineered corn. 

February 27: Hunger Moon

The February full moon of two days ago was referred to by some native tribes as the Snow Moon or the Hunger Moon. Hunger Moon especially makes sense, because this is about the point of winter when it gets harder for creatures living off the land to find food and stave off the seemingly ceaseless cold and snow.

In the snow under my feeders I noticed today tracks of mice, squirrels, and crows gleaning the seeds that the messy Blue Jays spilled. Taking what they can get. Many of us feel a certain hunger for something intangible this time of year, that restlessness for spring to begin to regain control of the landscape again, a renewal of faith in the cycle of seasons. As the effects of global climate change manifest themselves more dramatically, we're going to need that faith more than ever in days to come.

Wind howling,
tracks in the snow.
Dark hunger of need.

January 14: Thaw

The usual January Thaw is upon us, but it's difficult not to read into the melting snow, oozing mud, and prematurely budding shrubbery something more ominous. Global climate change is the giant elephant sitting in the middle of the room that is our planet. So we can't simply enjoy this brief reprieve from the bitter cold of last week, because we've lost our sense of what's normal anymore. Our climate compass needle is spinning wildly, even as the North Star poises above my house just as it always has. Even the simple love song of the chickadee gives me pause. I know chickadees sometimes sing in winter, but I couldn't help but feel anxious for some reason when I heard one sing today.

Chickadee's premature song--
is it the thought of love
or bad timing that concerns me?