Magnificent is the time we have with those we choose to couple with, built is a shared place, western facing portals into nature, topped with endless sky blue and notable sunsets, blinders manage our perspective, anonymity, sometimes curiosity but rare, we the last remnants of the village carry on, listening, learning, being.

Trees older than your grandparents converted to a cord times four, peanut and kyro provide personalities, brilliant foliage, skies of blue over the demise of two, separate days and beings with overlap which includes a freedom to live, to die if the physical is neglected, days where winter warmth is scarce fast approach, tonight Jupiter and Walker…

The air supports weight when aerodynamically a wing cuts through the ether, that same air has thermal capacities, and announcements of unpredictability. Dew point exposes its essence, provoking decision, to fly or not. Lingering heaviness. Awaiting are currents that impress power. Crazy how misinformed we are, how emotional we become. Troubling most is the ephemeral, because we all are but a vapor.

The bitterness of -30F experienced by the human body must be consistent with the intensity of a temperature of 130F, yet in each case, shifting only slightly towards the normative results in a false sense of acceptance, prolonging the inevitable result of maddening variations…

Quietly falling snow, neighbors which have mostly departed wise owls maybe having been prompted by more tenuous spring melts than us, yet neighbor boys return to the levee slopes speculating that a lighter sledder could take a sled further, challenging him when he correctly answered that both a heavy and light ball dropped would strike simultaneously, are they 13?

one of the younger fawns approaches her mothers size – her brother likes his distance, hidden in the bush – staring from a river backdrop, their largish ears smile a greeting, we converse in a friendly fashion from our deck, stellas and ruthies spirits are energized with our verbiage, i guide them in the door so as not to convey a threat, i look back, they return to eating the foliage below; the grass on the levee anticipates a second cutting.

Gumbo surrounds – when wet, slick heavy mess, when dry, brittle collapse, its purpose, to protect, an ability to suffocate, stop water, the Red did so very much swell, a record, a cooper’s hawk may of joined the neighborhood, anything larger has the cats on alert, nature has its way at challenging existence, posing dilemma, regular grass has a myriad of roots which although shallow span and has breadth, buried deep below the rushing currents maintains integrity, as the eventual displays, those grasses worked to hold the steepness in place, only scarred by remnants of the murky waters – distributed strength is effective

Abruptness, an about face, directions which have been forced now evidence some potential to relax. In several theatres, the characters I have known have seen a dynamic change, and with limited participation. Required breath is mostly spontaneous, but in fatigue, the mind numbs to a stop. Age and reason, both remind that futures have time to meld into reality. Where will that ball roll next, why must it always snow?

The night sky lingers in June in a so notable way. The same birds which feed before the 5 am dawn have maintained a pattern until the nearly 10 pm dusk. Their patterns dictated by the light, socialization, feeding, protectiveness, and ownership. When illuminated truth prevails, and in the dark, dormancy and secret. A roaming pileated woodpecker seems to run solo, but likely is mated, gathering, and dutiful. It has purpose to contribute to its own; partners which rely on each to continue, selection, self-will to remain. Will that linger as the long summer sun, or with the ripples of the seasons, ebb and flow?

Animals run, turkeys float, the sky’s blueness remains, the grass so very green, and heaven is where I stare out upon each morning as I wake – yet, some have this belief that living in obscurity is possible, as have I, and the birds with yellow bodies have visited, as have the hummingbirds, when we both said, hummm, maybe a basket for them, as we agreed… balance, resonance, she knows not what I know, and lives a purported lie, maintaining innocence, or at least unvolunteering the truth, yet each day is slowed as molasses strives to drop under gravity, oh so slow, and my heart is wrenched with her nature.

What makes the cold warm?
As bitter cold air surrounds, scraping deeper w/ exposure (time).
Mobility becomes compromised with thick pile layerings, and dormancy is sequestered.
What makes cold warm?
Crisis or tragedy fixes a vantage where less extreme is preferred, at least when longevity is desirable.
What makes cold warm?
Hope? But only ephemerally unless manifested.
Poignant action (motion) towards a preferably holistic and lasting solution?
But will we then ask, what makes warm cold?
For some, comfort is preserved in normality, while others w/ extremes.
Yet all systems inevitably find a balance point away from their once stochastic extremes.
What makes cold warm?
Energy
Implicitly: your own comfort zone is decided by the resources earned and the environment evolved from either work by you or others before you, and possibly serendipity.
-originally February 22, 2008 near 9 am en route to St. Paul

Slowly waddling through the deep snow were the river oaks turkeys. The white powder became trampled, now by turkeys, where the sunflower hulls were sprinkled under the suspended green and yellow seed basket, at least a virtual invitation to feed and roost. As I approached each retreated.
The next day, flying in from across the river, the rather rotund bodies flap to the ground, ambling up the hill to review the food situation to discover the gray squirrels’ remnants from my attempt the previous day. Quickly these birds inhale any morsels of ground covering and as we watched from the living-room window. I donned my polar boots and jacket, scarf, gloves and cap, to offer more.
Their skepticism prompted retreat as I approached, but curiously they remained within eye shot. I splash seed again onto the trampled white and do some retreating of my own. They consume, then relish in the bright blue-skied sun that heats their dark thick feathers. Their water supply is the fine white powder they ingest as each flake is a kernel of moisture.
Bitter cold has a regular hokey pokey like action as one claw balances the rotundness, while the other is tucked high into the warmer feathery bush. Two of the five elect to perch four feet higher on the porch railing. It would seem that both our cats and dogs have grown accustomed to these big birds.

Wild turkeys are grown and feed from my hand, the riverfront groomed despite several large falls, protection to 38.4 feet, rye-blue spread well, more work, patio, sauna, clay. Pontoon on Bay, heat is good, everyday.

Wind blows, ducks paddle, fish swim, birds fly, and water flows while I monitor the red’s rise to beyond 30 feet, just 8 short of my designed protection. Cool temperatures keep us dormant as does afternoon fatigue which finally is tapering from a recent return from Beijing.

Note: IMG_2018

Water began rising last week on the Red River of the North from alongside the banks where its thick icy crust remained fixed, but thawing under atypical temperatures. Yesterday morning we rose to the marriage of temperature with dew point providing an element of mystery and wonderment on how after several heated days the ice remained.
Near ten in the morning, water rising against an nearby upstream dam/falls no doubt contributed to the massive laminar sheets release. Reflecting its power from the solid motion, the sun continued to bake the morning fog. The noise, pops, crashes upon the undulating banks and water soaked trees were fantastic. Any small diameter trees were heard severing by the low velocity high momentum blows.
The motion remained cyclical for twenty four hours. The splintered logs and winter refuse skirted underneath when blocked. With time the river’s span was no longer bridged by ice. Random episodes would prompt yet another jam but ephemerally. Four hundred square foot bergs would catch a corner on a flooded tree base issuing an abrupt stop, an audible stress, and followed by a flow rotation sending it again into the mainstream. Throughout the event, I remained curious on the state of the downstream northern frozen-ness of the river.
Canadian geese honked from high altitudes above, birds and bushy tailed tree rats continued to forage without any noticeable respect, this first major sign of non-winter. In returning towards the house after my river’s edge inspection I hiked up the hill and was surprised to discover another sign the need to coexist with nature, the return of my nemesis, woody.

A brazen orange sky retreats to a western glow, while in Rome, a lunar eclipse wanes from totality.

Much of the winter lays behind, only limited shake from above has deprived us of an opportunity to exercise, both on skis and in my driveway pushing the white pile. I find polar cold to be an intriguing challenge when she first arrives. Temperatures near 30 below can serve dysfunction to the automobile, particular a specific German brand. While in NY, tens of feet of snow weigh down on roof-tops, we in Moorhead simply wonder if a bit more base would allow us to exercise our waxing hand.
Chronically I continue my bird metaphor commenting on the lack of “lemon birds” this year. Before the winter set in, we filled the hole with nearly 500 cubic yards of clay, allowing a much reduced reach to the feeding tubes. I wonder if somehow the changed landscape has my finch friends onto another feeding platform. For now, the woodpeckers continue to entertain while the greys and the reds seem to only annoy (but not completely).