Song of the day, Erik Satie, Gnossienne No. 4
Song of the day: Bruce Cockburn, High Winds, White Sky
Today’s Phenology: Temperature hovering around freezing for the last several days, leading to minor snow melt and some ice in places. Sun is neglecting us. Landscape is varying shades of white. Foxes and/or coyotes spotted on neighborhood security cameras. Many bunny tracks in the yard. Eagle spotted riding the winds over the river, looking for dinner. Crows dominate the bare trees. A damp cold that creeps into your bones. Sunday evening always feels like sunday evening, a school night, the end of control over time. The clock is ticking.
Song of the day, Nina Simone, Wild is the Wind
Phenological note: December thaw. 47 degrees today? Expect to see people out in their bermuda shorts and flip-flops. Our snow cover will be rapidly diminishing, and the ice houses out on Lake Pepin make me worry. I noticed that yesterday was a bit longer than the day before, so things are looking up, and the optimists among us consider December 22nd as the first true day of spring. Can baseball be far behind?
Song of the day, Louis Armstrong, I’ll be glad when you’re dead you rascal you
We draw ever closer to the longest night of the year. Just six days away. How to celebrate the longest night, that is the question. Might be a good night for old Jazz and a toddy.
The sky is gray slate today, and the temp didn’t top 10. A perfect day for making luminaries, and so three buckets of water are out nestled in the snow, doing their thing. How long til they are just right? It’s always a guessing game. I’ll test before bed tonight. Perhaps morning will be better. Or perhaps in the morning they will be frozen solid. Meanwhile, there’s a rumpus of bunny tracks in the yard, and there was a cardinal at the bird-feeder, looking disappointed at the offerings. Crows seem to be enjoying themselves. They are totally raucous.
Today was also a good day to take the Xmas tree out into the yard to shake the dust off. The neighbors may have thought it curious, me out in the yard, swinging our Christmas tree over my head. Well, let ’em talk. It’s a Christmas tradition. What of it?
I’m keeping my eye on the Big Lake up north. Big chunks of ice bobbing about in the swells, but still mostly liquid. The lighthouse seems stalwart and reassuring in the foggy winter morning.