Three things

There was a home game last night. Same host for the past three years or so, Mike, so we figured. Ever since Randy gave up that favor to the group.

Long time readers may recall my concern the handwriting was on the wall when Randy's girlfriend moved in with him. yet, when she began to join us at the table and appeared interested in learning the game, those worries were eased. And in fact it was Randy, not her that ended it with his habit of retiring to the bedroom after getting felted. One buy-in and off to pout, leaving her to hang with his pals.

Pals. Randy comes to the new game on a regular basis. He walked in last night and I said "Hello." He looked at me but did not return the greeting. Something was different about him, but it wasn't necessarily his demeanor.

And, as is usual for randy, he had his phone out to play Solitaire during the game. After about a half hour of play, someone asked Randy about his work. That was when he informed the group he had been in bed with bronchitis for six weeks. No one had been aware of that fact.

His girlfriend is really a lovely, friendly person.

The game is usually held the second Friday of the month, but since this month that day was Valentine's Day, Mike had scheduled the game for the 7th. Except we had sixteen inches of snow on the ground, so he cancelled it. He called this Wednesday to recruit me for last night.

Mike was already drinking when the crew showed up. Something in a tall glass. About two hours into the game and another drink, I look up to see a .45 revolver holstered in front of him. And, oh yeah, I am sitting directly across from him.

Me: Hey, Mike, wanna put away the gun?

Mike: Make ya nervous?

Me: Yeah, it does. I have an uncle who was shot at a poker game.

Phil: He don't have on his glasses so you don't have to worry.

Steve (to my right): It comes out of the holster, I'm ducking under the table.

At this point the crew erupts in its go-to latent homosexual joking: Oh, going under the table? Look out Spot!

Me: If I thought I was gonna die, I think I might let him.

I doubled up.

Changeable

The snow's been gone some time now. The winds and rains have returned, squall after squall announced and sent on their way with a fit of sleet.

But to set up the shot, I have to return to the snow.

This is what I happened upon out back after worrying the night before about some of our prettier tress up front and taking action before a half inch of ice sealed off the sixteen inches of snow. 

One might wonder why I waited this long to post this. Embarrassment that with time turned to forgetfulness that turned worse to I thought I already had. 

A lot on my mind.

This morning I went out and bought a sawzall. 

 

Frank Gehry building in the making.

Yeah, I suppose I could have rented one but I'm thinking I might not start to feel better about things in general dismantling just one structure. 

But after the rain lets up a bit.

 

A couple things; maybe a few.

I have an essay up. I was as kind as I could be.

****

You know, if you discount art as self-expression and think the discussion of the same is a heap, then, yes, I suppose I would seem to be phony.

****

The snow is melting with the help of temps and a little rain. So far, so good as the creek and pond are holding their banks. But we had some snow, yessireebob. Not as much as others and we've already been down this road, so I'll skip ahead to the wife and I walking early in the morning three days ago.

We were out to hear the widow-makers drop in the woods across the street, and that they were. I saw a little bird under our smaller pines and cedars that I knew to be a Golden- 
crowned Kinglet, a bird that has held my interest for a good while (see below). It was in trouble. Yet, given that I'm pretty full inside regarding a dying animal inside, I had to shrug this one off and leave it to Nature. I left the wife listening while I went to make make my morning cup.

Noise at the back door that I know well by now: emotional distress. Yes, she held the bird, cupped in her gloved hands. We watched it die. I noted the "gold" was a mix of yellow and orange.

I waited a bit and then went to town. I returned with bird seed, suet and feeders.

So far, very few birds. But the snow is melting.

Four inches seems much smaller on the wing

my concentration broken by branches and numbers and markings

then find a name almost giving up after ten years this winter when

I hear again their sound that does not translate to paper a combination

of my insufficiency and no trees

or anything else in the air but

alongside the barn and fencerow close enough I’d not bother you

with the detail of walking the blind dog except to pull the leash tight

fix on a flit a loop to land at my feet yellow striped head wing bars

as if it had not noticed but for a still second we both were God

sought found lost except for found to call a reminder not right

away for other duties but time to time back to the house

and for more than ID maybe the last on a list except

those that seldom leave the woods

or the task at hand unaddressed truth be told via simple digression

a scope easier generalized longstanding issue recounted

perceived wrongs the way seasons collide doubling back

on the friction turned on its side nonetheless suction enough

to stay outside for the dog’s too damn happy nose and ears

were I certain of its blindness to let it wander off leash

past the porch the house to the road and keep walking

or tell it to stay and hope it doesn’t follow best conditional

in either case the bird supposes a better course for both

Lord knows

I’ve tried about half the time otherwise none harder than what

comes my way even for follow through sufficient criteria

for a sense of self than knowing a name to put on a list

making notation easier than I let on and on so says

the crunch of bricks in the chimney

windows doors dishes laundry books

and walls a house accordingly responsible to what

one says aloud so I keep the bird’s name to myself

and unleash the dog

It's the humidity

Be careful what you wish for. Well, I'm not quite that superstitious and do remember last year similar dire warnings followed in short order by alleviation.

And now we're sitting tight with sixteen inches of snow and a half-inch of ice on top, just to scare the dogs when they take a step and collapse of hoop house. (I'll be renting a saws-all and calling the scrapper.) I knocked the snow out of trees I wished to keep as they are last night before the ice. For some, namely the yews, the ice was enough. They may spring back.

But were not out of the woods quite yet. Tomorrow the temps rise and the rains start. Depending on which comes first in earnest, we may get a bit of flooding as we did two years ago, a once-in-twenty-five years kind of an event.

At least we haven't lost power.

Yet.

I have gotten out and about between rounds of shoveling, this morning, in fact. The roads weren't the best but the big parking lots had been plowed a bit, making for them big mounds of wet, dirty snow. Perfect, I would say, for folks who don't see much of this white stuff but have some ideas about fun.

A poem to hide behind

Well, I've been busy:

watching the bipolar's doublewide
halved, plastic-wrapped and pulled out
of the woods barely clearing the gate,
no idea how long we haven't and therefore
where she or the comers and goers;
waiting for the fog to clear for rain
and snow on the peak given that name;
acres of downed and burned Christmas trees
and wondering why, so shapely,
perhaps past some prime in the business;
ten more acres up the road burned unaided;

the birds: the meme of murmuring
I guessed by two weeks, the sky full
of geese, pulled north but for rest,
hesitant, only if the rest; a pair of wrens;
three pairs of mallards shopped the pond
so we shall repeat the tamest of the lot
and suspect a day or two of photo op;
frog too, readying a go at it and just in time
as the wife has bought a new clock radio
with white noise options and battery back-up;
and they say it's about to turn cold again.