Smallish City Natural History
Pouring buckets at bedtime, pouring buckets at wake-up, pouring buckets all the way to Green Acres. The regions between Smallish City and Major Metropolitan Area are under water, suffering their worst flooding since the hurricane of 1938.
Stuck in my head is a line from Frost:
"The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,
Expend their bloom in vain."
At the Turbopalace, this is the week when my favorite trees bloom. The huge lilac reaches its upper branches to the windows outside my second-floor bedroom. Usually, for four or five nights each year, I can fling open the sash and drift to sleep under the narcotic romance of fragrant lilacs drifting into my chamber. At the other end of the yard is a lovely old crabapple, which flowers in an aromatic firework of bloom, but only every other year. I've been waiting two years to enjoy it again; it's about to happen. But all of this will go to waste. The windows are closed against the cold and wet. The delicate petals of the apple seem destined to be swept away the moment they open. There are no bees out and about.
"Oh, come forth into the storm and rout
And be my love in the rain."
Stuck in my head is a line from Frost:
"The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,
Expend their bloom in vain."
At the Turbopalace, this is the week when my favorite trees bloom. The huge lilac reaches its upper branches to the windows outside my second-floor bedroom. Usually, for four or five nights each year, I can fling open the sash and drift to sleep under the narcotic romance of fragrant lilacs drifting into my chamber. At the other end of the yard is a lovely old crabapple, which flowers in an aromatic firework of bloom, but only every other year. I've been waiting two years to enjoy it again; it's about to happen. But all of this will go to waste. The windows are closed against the cold and wet. The delicate petals of the apple seem destined to be swept away the moment they open. There are no bees out and about.
"Oh, come forth into the storm and rout
And be my love in the rain."
posted by Turbo at 9:05 AM
1 Comments:
Here's what you do:
You go camping in the wet, for several nights.
It's not fun, but when you come back, you will be so thrilled by your warm dry bed that not having the sun come in the window will be irrelevant. At least, that's how I felt after a soggy couple of weeks last summer, the B&B in the middle of a soggy landscape seemed like *heaven*.
Of course, it didn't have a leaky roof.
And *my* word verification? ieuioh. Not kidding. Almost Old MacDonald had a farm, adjust for Turboglacier had a House and make up lyrics for wet from there. I would do so right now if it wasn't for that pesky job thing.
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