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Annie Dillard would

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… Read more Annie Dillard would

the night deposited

The night deposited another half-a-foot of snow, and my neighbor is valiantly shoveling the sidewalk.  There’s a desert–a lemon meringue pie, a blanc mange–what is a blanc mange? –which looks like the snow does now: softly peaked, luscious.  Am I thinking of a baked Alaska?  Why do cafes make those biscuity scones when they could make baked Alaskas? Di makes snow angels on top of her car, a very good idea.  The plow came early, but midway, the plowman (not ploughman) stopped, got out of his cab, and walked down the… Read more the night deposited