chocolate is a verb

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Tag Archives: snow

found poem: struck

found poem: the day

found poem: FEEL

found poem: snow silly

found poem: who designed

found poem: beauty

found poem: before dark

found poem: a pale wind

the day after

2016-12-09 snow feetBellingham, Washington, isn’t known for snow. Memorable storms are rare enough that residents recall them by year. More typically we get a couple of doses each year accompanied by an icy blast of Arctic chill.

After a region-stalling storm prediction in October (the storm never materialized), the weather-callers have been reluctant to over-promise this week except to say that driving could be hazardous. While higher elevations received a snow-angel-worthy dumping, low-lying Bellingham got a scant half-inch overnight. The temperature is creeping up over freezing, rain is predicted, and life will soon return to winter-normal: wet.

But this morning, a wonderful quiet surrounds the house, and the locals — juncos, sparrows, chickadees — are busy with their flitting and foraging, exploring the sheltered margins of the yard and the places where fronds of spruce, juniper, or pine offer a moment’s respite from wind and cats.

found poem: because

found poem: you


dwarf pieris and elkhorn cypress
It’s trying to snow, but the sky is lazy, the ground dusted white, the air sprinkled with barely tangible flakes. In the gray light, the greens are darkened to nearly black and the golden evergreens (juniper, hinoki) look jaundiced and burnt.
Still, there are moments of grace: cotoneaster stripped of everything but its brilliant red berries, pink-budded dwarf pieris and elkhorn cypress (Thujopsis dolobrata) nodding neighbors, chickadees hopping among the bare branches of the crabapple.

found poem: I’ve been



It’s snowy…


for reading…

early light…

plum buds in snowAt 4:30 a.m. I open my eyes and see a strange light shining through the window onto the east wall. Sitting up, I discover that the nearly-full moon has settled into a cleft between hillside trees to shine into my bedroom, across a surprise snowscape, for the last few minutes before moonset. In the moon’s glow, the ground shines upward and every twig is limned with light.

the snows…

Snowy Owl Copyright © 2011, Alan D. WilsonYesterday, the snowy owls. At home, a few snowflakes fall into the partially sunny morning, then stop. We drive north, lunch in a nearly-empty Mexican restaurant. Just across the border, the snow begins in earnest, blowing hard at the car, sticking.

Just as quickly, it’s over, scraps of blue sky, raggedy clouds, storm moving across the wide Delta in dark columns. At Boundary Bay, wind, chaotic sky, but no rain or snow.

We see whitish lumps far out toward the water, but even with binoculars can’t quite distinguish them from bleached logs or plastic bags. Then, glancing down at the tumbled logs just below the trail, round white heads. Two. No, three. Perhaps 40 feet away, watching, unperturbed by the fans, the paparazzi, the dogs, the overflying bald eagles. The spotting scope brings them close. We watch. The doll-like swiveling of their heads, the slow and complicated closing of their eyes, which look like watching eyes even when they’re closed.

We walk on, our own eyes learning the language of owls, now seeing them there, and there, and there. Mostly they sit in the lee of logs, watch, sleep, preen, but some perch on snags and a couple fly on wide white wings, one gliding impossibly, on and on, not more than four inches off the ground. Magnificent.
photo copyright © 2011, Alan D. Wilson

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