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S’no Long

11 Mar

This morning there was 1/3 less snow depth than yesterday morning: a foot instead of 18 inches. It was 40 F most of the night, I think.

Yesterday Isabelle and I sledded four runs down three hills.  She didn’t wear snow shoes.  The crust was thick and the top was covered with largish grains of ice.  I wore them.  Hawthorne ran and ran on top of the snow until his tongue looked like might completely fall out.

This morning I wore snow shoes.  If I had not, I would have been like the deer who left their self-imposed pens to wander across the small fields and up and down the hedgerows leaving pock marks everywhere.  They also left a wonderful design: a roadrunner.  An accent mark with its point tipped to the left, to the right of that a large oval, and then after the oval a slanted straight line, all in proportion.

One might wonder: How did Northern Whitetail Deer in the Fingerlakes of NY  know what a roadrunner looked like?  How did they reproduce it?  Too much TV and time on their hands, says I.   Good thing it was in snow.  If it had been in white stones there would be camera crews here tomorrow.  And the question of how they carried the stones.

Hawthorne’s feet sank down each step in the soft snow this morning.  The deer had not attempted the corn field.  When we did, Hawthorne twice stepped on the back of a snow shoe to help himself and I (twice) went down on knees and hands.  We did not walk our normal amount this morning.  Something kept treding on me.

The birds are singing their spring songs.  Yesterday we saw three Flickers in the small bare area that appeared under one of the spruces by the house.  And a pair of silly mourning doves picking up bits for a nest. If you can call their mess of a platform a nest.  That birds of such little brain have survived as a species this long is evidence of God’s creative grace, while supposedly cannier species, like the T. Rex,  are only old cold bone stones.

The first red-winged blackbird was heard this morning.  The bluebirds were singing  into the evening, sitting on the telephone wire by the pond.

The fabulous cave had a sunroof for most of the day, but had collapsed when I took the dog out a few minutes ago and is now nothing but an open shell.

To inhibit mud trackage into the house, two sleds are barring the usual walkway to the garage.  We are walking in the one to one side for now.  But eventually the mud will win that area, too.  Then I will have to start washing dog and cat feet when they come indoors.  Oh, the joys of spring!

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