Yesterday I stood out in the sunshine admiring daffodils that were just about to bloom, and today they are buried under a blanket of wet snow. About six inches, I would guess, and still falling.
All week I've been hearing towhees calling and I thought the juncos had left us, but snow brings back the snow-birds so this morning they're all over the place, along with a herd of cowbirds desperate for some seeds from our feeder. When everything they rely on for food is suddenly covered with snow, the birds have to find sustenance where they can.
No sign of a plow on our road so it's a good thing I don't need to go anywhere. Tomorrow I need to drive to Columbus to pick up our son from the airport, so I sincerely hope the roads are clear by then. Shoveling snow during spring break? That's just not right!
I've been thinking of the Robert Frost poem--not "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening," lovely as that might be, but the more bleak and hopeless "Desert Places," with its "blanker whiteness of benighted snow / with no expression, nothing to express." If I sit and think too much I'll soon join Frost in "scare[ing] myself with my own desert places," so I think I'd better get up and get moving, for I have many rooms to clean and miles to go before I've seen a host of golden daffodils, or something like that.
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