Yesterday, there were 43 icicles hanging over my kitchen window. Imagine a long rectangle that opens like a porthole–that’s my kitchen window. Today, there are twenty-one, all shapes and sizes. If I felt glacial, I could watch them drip as the sun warms up. Why is that only appealing with a cup of coffee in my hand? Annie Dillard would watch with pen in hand.
There is the compost truck. We have compost, recycle and garbage, but it seems the compost only gets collected every other week. Every week would make sense. I remember in New Jersey how one day, all the houses on my parents’ street received large bright bee pollen yellow recycling containers. They looked other-wordly, like space containers for nuclear waste. They’ve yet to incorporate composting, but I know many compost in their yards. Growing up with Ranger Rick’s Nature Magazines, which I didn’t have the heart to ever stop subscribing until high school, because it was for a cause, I helped my mother make organic bug juice–garlic, red pepper, water–to spray on the tomato plants. That was then.
How many icicles now?
Today, another day: one. Spring’s coming.