28 tagged with #weather

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the 110th day of january

the hillside soaks up sunlight, but the mud doesn't warm. a frozen night slowly releases ice as spectators trample the grass, while the upper sliver of moon lazily arcs across the sky. moisture wicks through the bottoms of my shoes, dampening my socks, cooling my feet.

a persistent breeze funnels up the bridge and catches the row of barricades; two of them topple, but the third one somehow stays upright. eerily, it starts scooting uphill onto the course, slowly picking up speed as the barricade marshals stare at it in shock. someone runs off after it, wrestling it out of the wind. the barricade collapses once the wind dies, like strings cut from a puppet. for the rest of the race, each barricade is assigned a human minder to keep it from wandering back onto the course.

this means more barricade marshals have to be dispatched as mobile crowd-control.

20 April 2018 16:44


we've crossed mid-april and i still woke to find the house wrapped in a thin sheet of fresh snow; i've been in continual denial about my ability to put away my tights for the season.

i've put off turning over the plots in the yard; a small cup of water sits on the kitchen windowsill nursing some green onion roots. soon, i should think about starting potatoes. it always feels too late. i always start too early.

17 April 2018 16:05


i had a hard time tolerating the weather today. we were under a red flag warning, meaning extremely low humidity, high temperatures, high wind. the afternoon sun blasted relentlessly; all across campus, students lounged sleepily with minimal clothing.

it's ominous, because most of the plants haven't started to stir. it's ominous, because i can look at the radar and see a swirling system pushing across the plains. the winds knocking weak limbs from the trees have swept here from the rockies. my fountain pens burp whenever i release their caps. an indefinite flood watch propagates through the weather forecast.

this is spring. how is this spring?

13 April 2018 21:41

cabin fever

the sky opens blue above me, but snow drifts by, somehow. they land on my cheeks like pinpricks, and i blink to keep them from my eyes. all day, i hear about things that have fallen over from the winds; trees, recycle bins of glass, a porta-potty. for a few moments, the world seems too hostile. for these moments, i can hardly convince myself to step outside of a building.

but i feel the suffocation of solid walls, filtered air, unquiet electronics. i feel the world as impossibly small, unavoidably ordered, inescapably futile. i feel the pressure from a building full of people i cannot see, in rooms above, below, and beside mine. i can reach in front of me and touch objects, but i cannot hear the wind blow.

all challenges are a gift; they are puzzles to be met and worked on.

04 April 2018 19:51


umbrellas sprout in the rain; they swing across the sidewalk, blindly, and i careen through them on my bicycle. i know if i tuck down over my handlebars, i can slip under the taller ones. it's a game, and i laugh.

one student walks towards me with an umbrella patterned like a daisy, wearing orange rubber boots that cover her shins. she swings out of my way while i swerve.

the grass swells, puddles glistening. my phone blows up with half a dozen flash flood warnings. it's still cold out. it's april.

03 April 2018 21:11

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