I’m not feeling well. I’m on the mend from a stomach bug last week and still tire easily, so the intricate science-explainer I’m looking forward to writing will have to wait another week. But that’s how I’m doing–how’s my little corner of the Earth doing this week?
Well, it’s not on fire, so that’s good, but winter seems to have taken a break–we’ve had days of borderline T-shirt weather recently. I know that climate and weather are different, and cold weather in my neighborhood doesn’t mean climate change has taken a breather, but I still would prefer it. I still find warm winter days discouraging. I also can’t quite shake the feeling that if I complain about the unseasonable weather enough, climate change will hear me somehow and go away.
We do what we can to maintain our sense of normality in times when normal is rare and crumbling.
I took my dogs on a walk in the late afternoon. It was cold enough out to require a jacket, at least, and the rain had stopped, or maybe paused. A thick fog had settled in, putting halos around the headlights of the cars of people returning from work–rush-hour, of sorts, on our quiet street. We live among woodlot and farm field, among deer and turkeys who never let us see them (some of the neighbors doubtless hunt), and among vultures who come here to roost, rustling huge wings with a sound like shuffling paper as they get ready for sleep. The world goes silver and quiet on wet winter days around here, the fog against the muted colors of field and forest.
I heard the honking of geese and looked up. I couldn’t see them at first, but then they went right overhead, flying low, but almost hidden in the fog anyway, as if they’d been partially erased. The movement of their wings wasn’t visible in the blurry gloom, so they scooted across the sky with no obvious means of propulsion, like Star Trek shuttlecraft.
This is the world we live in. Won’t somebody make sure we get to keep it?