Snow and snow fleas

Ahhh, Coffee Creek in the snow--we got about 8 inches here. The snow fleas are out and about for the first time in years you can spot them as tiny black specks on top of the snow.

Snow fleas are not really fleas; they don't bite, nor do they make themselves at home on your pet. They are, however, an indicator of water quality. And Coffee Creek's water quality must be good here at the park because the snow fleas are abundant.

What a Difference a Year Makes!

Here's a warm up from March 17, 2012 when spring came early.

This year there is nearly a foot of new snow on the ground, and no matter how fast it melts the daffodils will not be showing their heads by March 17, 2013!

Cheery Chickadee

The Speckled sky is dim with snow,

The light flakes falter and fall slow;

Athwart the hill-top, rapt and pale,

Silently drops a silvery veil;

And all the valley is shut in

By flickering curtains gray and thin.

But cheerily the chickadee

Singeth to me on fence and tree;

The snow sails round him as he sings,

White as the down of angels’ wings.

I watch the slow flakes as they fall

On bank and brier and broken wall;

Over the orchard, waste and brown,

All noiselessly they settle down,

Tipping the apple-boughs, and each

Light quivering twig of plum and peach.

On turf and curb and bower-roof

The snow-storm spreads its ivory woof;

It paves with pearl the garden-walk;

And lovingly round tattered stalk

And shivering stem its magic weaves

A mantle fair as lily-leaves.

The hooded beehive, small and low,

Stands like a maiden in the snow;

And the old door-slab is half hid

Under an alabaster lid.

All day it snows: the sheeted post

Gleams in the dimness like a ghost;

All day the blasted oak has stood

A muffled wizard of the wood;

Garland and airy cap adorn

The sumach and the wayside thorn,

And clustering spangles lodge and shine

In the dark tresses of the pine.

The ragged bramble, dwarfed and old,

Shrinks like a beggar in the cold;

In surplice white the cedar stands,

And blesses him with priestly hands.

Still cheerily the chickadee

Singeth to me on fence and tree:

But in my inmost ear is heard

The music of a holier bird;

And heavenly thoughts as soft and white

As snow-flakes, on my soul alight,

Clothing with love my lonely heart,

Healing with peace each bruised part,

Till all my being seems to be

Transfigured by their purity.

Midwinter by John Townsend Trowbridge

Watercolor

Taken through a dense fog, this picture reminds me of a watercolor painting.

Coffee Creek

A very light snow was coming down on Coffee Creek Saturday afternoon and very little was out battling the frigid winds.

Dragonfly Dreaming

Saturday warm up from the archive: These guys are easier to photo first thing in the morning when they're sucking up heat from the sun to get moving for the day. Closer to noon they will generally become too fast to photo.

March in Cold Injustice

Suddenly I saw the cold 

and rook-delighting Heaven

That seemed as though ice burned 

and was but the more ice,

And thereupon imagination 

and heart were driven

So wild that every casual thought of that and this

Vanished, and left but memories, 

that should be out of season

With the hot blood of youth, 

of love crossed long ago;

And I took all the blame out of all sense

 and reason,

Until I cried and trembled and rocked to and fro,

Riddled with light.

Ah! when the ghost begins to quicken,

Confusion of the death-bed over, is it sent

Out naked on the roads, as the books say, and stricken

By the injustice of the skies for punishment?  

W.B. Yeats Cold Heaven