A Hankering For Snow

There is a certain aura that descends deliciously on you when you awake to the land covered in whiteness. It came this morning for the first time this season. Snow.

The valley below is spread with snow, the darker river snaking a course through the land with the white skeletons of the sycamore trees lining the edges where snow meets water. It is a treat. So we move more wood into the stove and feel especially comforted this morning as the flame spreads heat into our bluffhouse home.

We have no guests today. Were there a way to predict the date of snowfall, I am certain we would be besieged with requests for our cabins. But, not so, those folks are busying themselves in offices, cubicles, store counters and other employments. I truly wish they were able to participate in this luxury. I'll admit to my own gratitude for this.

Here is a snatch of poetry that my mother -- long gone -- would quote on mornings suchs at this.

"The snow began in the gloaming,
And busily through the night,
Heaping field and highway
With silence deep and white."

The wind swirls fluffiness around the corners of the house. The birds attack the feast we have prepared for them: Suet, niger seed, sunflower seeds (oh, and we must'nt forget water). We've even laid out some ear corn in hopes the squirrels will stay clear the the feathered creatures flitting about.

I am certain that Aunt Phoebe is enjoying the snowfall at her cabin overlooking the valley. And at spare Line Camp Cabin buried in the trees, remnants of past occupants who have loved this place are murmuring contentment.

We will hope for more such snows this winter. But, until then, this one will satisfy for a time.

Westward, across the valley we can see another snow shower rolling toward us. We will let this one pass, then be off to track the critters in the snow on a brief foray into the woods. We'll collect an armful of wood from the pile on our return.

Winter slothfulness

Snow falling on cedars. Birds scampering across our outside deck, vying for seeds we scattered. For some reason, two victims this morning, birds trying to enter our sun room and smashing into the glass window. One dead, one apparently survived. There is no grief among the survivors, only continuing competition for free food.
Our cedar Christmas tree is stripped of it's lights and decorations and now sits outside where birds use it's limbs for brief respites. When cardinals come, drab cedars turn back into gaudy Christmas trees. Red, white and green are today's colors. White swirls across the deck. Finches, juncos in numbers; woodpeckers at the beef fat hanging.
Inside, warm, and reflective, I am two weeks past knee surgery. Two weeks of forced reticence and, yes, pain. But I have given myself over to modern chemistry and little white pills. They have helped stay the gremlin while I've watched Kathy carry in firewood, stoke the fire, feed the birds, and absorb other tasks that are normally mine. But, I progress, if slowly.
Rock Eddy Bluff Farm is closed and will be for several weeks. I have fallen backward into sloth and indolence, while outside the birds struggle and flit in the cold whiteness. Nearby, green cedars frame a snow covered landscape running onward to a grey horizon.
There is a certain zen today, one of simple awareness.

Winter vs. Spring (March Madness)

The evil forces of winter are locked in battle with the gentle forces of spring. Or, at least that is the look of things at Rock Eddy Bluff Farm http://www.rockeddy.com/ right now. Actually, we love winter. It is just that, right now we are sick of it. Its kinda like a well-loved relative whose only fault is that he has overstayed his welcome. The same thing happens every March. We've come to expect it.

But, Geez, here it is the last of March and we are expecting snow this afternoon. Temps in the low thirties. We'll be covering up plants for the night.

We will sit by the fire this afternoon and reflect on the coming of spring. And, I'll consider a couple of snatches of poetry that always come to mind this time of year. I'll recall them from memory, so apologies in advance to Edna St. Vincent Millay and John Niehardt for the mistakes.

"Spring rides no horses down the hill/ But comes on foot, a goosegirl still./ And all the loveliest things there be/ Come simply, or so it seems to me" Edna St. Vincent Millay

The other slice of a long work comes from an epic poem , titled "The Upstream Men", about Ashley's Hundred, a group of explorers that went up the Missouri River in the early 1800's. They departed just as spring was moving into the countryside. (I have to admit that I went back to the book; my memory of this passage butchered it badly.)

"And so they say/ Went forth a hundred singing men that day;/ And girlish April went ahead of them. The music of her trailing garment hem/ Seemed scarce a league ahead. A little speed/ might yet almost surprise her in the deed/ Of sorcery; for, ever as they strove,/ A gray-green smudge in every poplar grove/ Proclaimed the recent kindling. Aye, it seemed/ That bird and bush and tree had only dreamed/ Of song and leaf and blossom, till they heard/ The young men's feet; when tree and bush and bird/ Unleased the whole conspiracy of awe!/ Pale green was every slough about the Kaw;/ About the Platte pale green was every slough;/ And still the pale green lingered at the Sioux,/ So close they trailed the marching of the South./ But when they reached the Niobrara's mouth/ The witchery of spring had taken flight/ And like a girl grown woman overnight,/ Young summer glowed." John G. Niehardt

So, this afternoon we will watch the fire and the snowflakes. We'll probably even watch some March Madness on the Telly.

'Til next time, The Hired Man