in like a lion

hello, march, i whisper into the morning. i've stopped letting myself get stressed out about my slow mornings because i need that energy for other things.

the recent warm spell fades fast; a high wind warning sweeps across the river valley, the sled dogs tugging a cloud full of ice.

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01 March 2018 20:37

drench

these are the days when it's drizzling when i leave the house, building as i'm flying downhill, and blinding by the time i reach the bottom. by the time i get to my office, the skies are blank again.

i hung my pants in the film dryer.

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23 February 2018 22:33

stream crossing tactics

flood alerts stack up four deep on the weather forecast; we've had rains and rains and rains and the ground is saturated. the driveway sinks into a pool of diseased hemlock needles and winter mud, a puddle the size of several parking spaces between my front door and the bike shed.

but i know how to look at water and move to the other side. the air even smells like wet evergreen; i balance on the curb, carefully, one hand against a flexing sapling for balance. there are low spots in the puddle, places where my foot landing will push the water aside briefly, and if i move quickly enough, i can leave that void before it comes rushing back in.

my pannier throws me off balance, but not as much as when i'm carrying three days of food and shelter on my back and tiptoing my way across the surface of a creek. over the years, my feet have learned these feelings.

i reach the curb on the other side, but it's overgrown with hedges. i push through them to get to the shed; my shins get wet, but the water sloughs off my slightly waterproof pants with a few shakes.

i have to mount my bicycle in the puddle, supporting myself with one hand on a tree as one foot leaves the dry curb to reach for a pedal. it's a game i know well, too; in the winter, i try not to dismount if i can help it, because i'm safer if i'm drier.

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22 February 2018 20:14

heavy fog

at just past noon, not enough light slips through the fog to get to my windows; i mistake it for dusk. i can hear the past few days of snowpack sliding down the gutters, along the channels i cut towards the drains so we wouldn't be flooded out.

hours later, when i'm returning from errands, i pass through a slight dip in the road. the fog pools there, swept through the trees and rows of houses. it clogs my eyes and nose, smelling like confusion. crows pass overhead, the beating of their wings stirring the air; i hear and feel them more than anything else. i trip over mud i didn't see.

i don't understand this weather. this weather is real.

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11 February 2018 19:55

rockets

the roof heats up; all night long, we listened to the song of ice blocks freed from each other, gathering speed as they slide along the slots between tiles, sounding like large claws scraping across hollow scales, a hitch of breath as they launch over the gutter, an impact. sometimes, they shatter like a dropped pot on the brickwork; others, it's a dull thud into melted snow.

in the morning, the front step is littered with unmelted remnants; i listen for the ominous crack of another projectile being sloughed by the house before i step out from under the eaves. when i clear the threshold without getting pelted, i look back at the roof.

it's already dry.

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21 January 2018 16:07