chocolate is a verb

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Tag Archives: winter

found poem: the extreme

found poem © j.i. kleinberg ~ the extreme
found poem © j.i. kleinberg (reposted from January 2014)

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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: Comprehensive

found poem: Here

found poem: rain

trying

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: WINTER

found poem: dense

found poem: TO ENTICE

found poem: after

found poem: shellacked

winter visitors

American Robin Copyright © 2011, Alan D. WilsonI like robins. I like their warbling song and the funny way they tilt their heads to listen for earthworms. Until today, I’ve always thought of them as fairly solitary.

But here we are in the first week of December and a small gang of robins — at least seven of them — has spent the morning rushing around my yard. A stop in the juniper bush to imbibe some berries, a downward dash to the duff under the rhododendron, a quick swoop up to the bare plum tree, a rest in the maple on the parkway. Repeat.

At first I thought, No, those can’t be robins. Robins work alone. But, after a little research, Mr. Sibley assures me that flocking behavior is normal for wintering robins.

In years past, a different thrush — a Townsend’s Solitaire — has been a rare visitor to the same juniper bush, so perhaps it shouldn’t surprise me to discover this thrushy carousing right outside my window. They’re quiet drunks, these robins — not a gin-soaked singer among them — and if there’s a little tumbling as they land, or if the twigs on the maple are a little slippery under their feet, I’m happy they’ve decided to drink and dine at my humble establishment.

. . . . .
photo of an American Robin Copyright © 2011, Alan D. Wilson
(juniper berries are blue; the robin in this photo may be eating crabapples)

found poem: chill

found poem: the months

found poem: winter,

found poem: THE LETTER

found poem: timely

found poem: wind

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