"Wolf nightmares" *

Morning, after a snow, is a wonderful opportunity to see what creatures come through the yard. Yesterday I could see where deer had come in from the back (behind my neighbor’s house is a little draw) heading toward the front yard; they did a bit of birdseed cleanup under the lonely pine before crossing the street. Of course, a number of cats go through these yards, hugging the walls behind shrubbery. At least one set of tracks went under the deck and then came out the other side and continued skirting the house. Lots of birds made their maddening hieroglyphics, a few squirrels had a raced from tree to tree in places no branches meet. Today I watched a squirrel run across my neighbor’s roof, a dangerous passage as the hawks have been very active in the neighborhood this week. About a third of the snow melted today as it was another sunny day and five degrees warmer. Tomorrow most of it will probably disappear as it gets warmer still and rain is forecast.

With the melting snow and the absence of tracks one could believe that those other creatures aren’t out there, that they don’t share the world with us or wish we’d share the world with them in a more humane way. That they aren’t using these weird green areas and cul-de-sacs to move along trails that they’ve used for a millennium or more (except for, maybe, these domesticated cats, Caticus Kittleeatus Maximus). It’s sort of like those that stayed in shadow and secret groups for a so many years, on the radar of groups like the Southern Poverty Law Center and Hate Watch, but mainly ignored and pooh-poohed by others. Everyone had that racist neighbor or grandma or uncle or father or friend. But they “didn’t really mean it” they’d never “act on it”. And we forgot what tracks to watch for, forgot how they hunted and fed, forgot how to bring them in from being feral; they use to hide because the rest of us told them no, not here. Now they’re all savage, they’ve invaded our towns and cities and safe little cul-de-sacs. They’ve been elected to office, they aren’t just that small town sheriff or county commissioner, they’re mayors and governors and in Congress. One was President. They’re out in the open. And snow or none, we need to learn how to track them, see what it will take to turn them human.

Here’s a bit of a poem from Margaret Atwood’s new book, Dearly, called Short Takes On Wolves* (2020, Ecco) and a picture of the Wolf Moon caught up in a tree this morning.

Little frozen icey thngs

The promised snow has come. Snow muted the morning, except for the starlings that arrived to mangle the suet feeders, the day was quiet. The cardinals buffed their beaks and readied their feathers, they know how fantastic they look in this background. It isn’t a lot of snow that we got today, but it changes the world. After lunch I was watching my neighbor and her son, this is his first snowfall he can walk in and he was not having any of it. I don’t know what the problem was but he was not happy. Later I saw him out with his father and it was the same thing, his stayed where the snow wasn’t. What I wanted to see was his dad fall over into the snow and make a snow angel, get the weirdness all over him, and really indulge in it.

When I was growing up in Eastern Oregon, we had some wicked winters, below zero for weeks, six, seven-foot drifts around the house and barns. School closed for an entire week one winter. But my Aunt drove from their place to ours (8 or 9 miles) so she could get out of the house and my cousins could run off some of their energy. It was a busy day of snow cave building, sliding on the frozen irrigation ditch, snow ball fights and sledding. The old mare, Patty, pulled a sled a bit too. We were sustained by gallons of cocoa and hot soup.

      

We had one really good, or really bad (depending on your views), winter while we were in Klamath Falls. A lot of snow days for the schools and closures for roof damage around town. We had clean to our roof too. We lived 13 miles out of Klamath Falls, down in a little valley between two ridges and we got more snow typically than in town. The snow was so deep we had to make paths and potty areas for the dogs. The best workout in the world is cutting through four feet of snow to make trails and clearing a pretty long driveway, a lot of leg and arm work. Ooh rah! 

Vegan pizza fiasco

Let’s talk about tofu. Up until about twelve years ago I had eaten tofu about twice in my life. I had encountered it, I had tried it, I did not seek it out again. And then in 2008 or 2009, for a new year resolution we decided to go vegan for the month of January. One would think this was a bold thing to do in Klamath Falls Oregon, January brought the Bull and Horse Show where tri-tip was a required food item; where the Cattlemen and Cattlewomen’s Association was one of “the” clubs to join, it was farm country; though one of my favorite bumper stickers was “I’m not a vegetarian because I love animals, I’m a vegetarian because I hate plants.”

So, we did our research and looked at the available items we could veg out on. Bean patties, veggie stews, tofu, we tried some soy cheeses…generally any plant-based thing we tried. Careful reading of product ingredients and new recipes really made the month easier. The really wonderful part of this was that our local (locally owned) market, Sherm’s Thunderbird, had a great assortment of vegetarian and vegan foodstuffs and we tried most of them. From this though I came to appreciate tofu a lot. It’s a staple now, I have about six or seven blocks in my fridge right now. But here is a confession, it’s not really a new thing, but during the month of veganism, when my son (who was a tall, lean high schooler) would come to my office after school, I would give him money so he could go down to Wendy’s and get a burger and fries. Just a couple of times. I think he hadn’t signed off on the whole bean patty and oven baked fries and after the vegan pizza fiasco, we were all waiting for February.
 
Anyway, that’s the day’s meander. And here is a link to my favorite tofu skit: Veganville from Saturday Night Live and NBC. Oh, and a random picture taken in Belgium near Chateau Veves.

"a little to one side it is there"*

Thursday afternoon I was looking for a poem or two to read for an open mic following a reading for First Draft Writers' Series, from Pendleton, Oregon. I was going to just read love poems because I thought that’s just easier and mine are those “seen from the corner of your eye”** and not overly sentimental. I’m opposed to overly sentimental in poetry and in life. Keep it in commercials and made for TV movies. I want emotions that are earned. Don’t give me cheap theatrics or sick kittens just to soften a heart. Jerry says for a poet you are devoid of a soul, my reply to that is I don’t believe is souls.

So I was shuffling through some older folders and found a poem of mine called Mythology, I had forgotten about it. What I find curious about it is the opening thesis, what is that about? I’m wondering if I wrote this before or after I wrote a poem called Considering my father’s heart. (quick note, I see I wrote them both around the same time about nine years ago) So here are two poems about hearts, gritty and scarred and curious. (And after the poems, a snoring cat!) Be safe, be kind!

Mythology

The heart breaks and ruptures, heals
itself, weakens and hardens with tough
new scars. No doubt it skips
speeds and causes reckless words.
It peers into the past, worships the future,
lays claim to whatever the brain says avoid.
And so I wait for whatever the world holds
knowing my heart, and its minor gods, can
wait for new stories, different outcomes.

These are the myths I grew up with:
China Gold, Sasquatch, D.B. Cooper,
the Northern Lights, a father’s unshakeable love.

One summer a hundred head of elk
crossed the just graded road
outside of Granite Oregon. Their meadow
caught in the gloom, as sun 
made its way over the mountain
and lit the top of the highest pine.

A quarter mile up, my father stopped
the road grader, as the tan
animals moved like a wave of honey
into the timber. The machine shuddered,
a reverberation that echoed
through the dawn with the distant
elk voices, and opened the day

to this last myth I thought I understood.
My father drove out of sight
into deep and unknowable shadow.

 

Considering my father’s heart

Which I haven’t, for years, really, since we stopped talking,
or he stopped talking, to me. But today, with news
that he is in the hospital with heart trouble, I think
about it, and him. His father died over fifty years ago
from a bad heart. And I wonder if he thinks about
that. If he weighs the heart ache and the heart break
the way I weigh mine. If he smiled wryly, like I did,
when my sister told me that he has heart blockage
but that his body had already created a bypass,
and it was working so well that doctor said there
was no need for surgery. Of course, I thought,
even in life and death he’s too stubborn.
And then I think about calling him for his birthday,
wondering if our hearts have found other ways
to survive, how mine has healed in miraculous
ways as well.
 

 “Poetry is the kind of thing you have to see from the corner of your eye**. You can be too well prepared for poetry. A conscientious interest in it is worse than no interest at all, as I believe Frost used to say. It's like a very faint star. If you look straight at it you can't see it, but if you look a little to one side it is there*.” William Stafford from What It Is Like, Writing the Australian Crawl Views on the Writer’s Vocation, The University of Michigan Press, 1978

 

"When day comes, we step out of the shade, aflame and unafraid."*

Over the years I have indoctrinated Jerry to poetry. Like a lot of people who went to US public schools, poetry was something that was touched on occasionally and had a tendency to carry the labels classic and good even though we did little more than parrot what was needed for a test. (Prufrock anyone?) Those words had zero to do with our lives and the poets had little to do with us, [they] being primarily old, white men from other realms of the world; worlds nothing like ours or our parents. Of course, over the last two days the world has been awash with poetry, or poem, thanks to the radiant Amanda Gorman. What every writer, and reader, of poetry knows is the power of one poem to inspire and to make you search for more – more poems, more poets, more poetry that gives voice to what so many need to hear, wonder about, what touches us.

Jerry has gone with me to many poetry readings over the years and he has found poets among my friends that he enjoys (quotes!); he has his favorites and also he is a fan of Sunni Patterson, Joy Harjo and his new favorite poet, Amanda Gorman. He judges poems/poets like this: “She’s no Bette Husted.” Or, “Paulann Petersen is safe.” Or, “Peter Sears would have read him under the table.”

Ms. Gorman was appointed to the National Youth Poet Laureate during National Poetry Month in 2017. I remember listening to her poetry then knowing that we would hear more from her, and didn’t we? Here is a link that takes you to her poem to read for yourself or listen to. (* this post's title is a line from The Hill We Climb)

Be safe, be kind. Here's a begonia clipping that has finally bloomed. Light and beauty!

"To heal, we must remember,"*

Evan Vucci/AP

[From NPR] President-elect Joe Biden addressed a grieving nation on Tuesday, after the United States had earlier in the day passed 400,000 deaths from the coronavirus.

Speaking at a service to remember Americans killed by the virus, Biden praised medical professionals for their roles in caring for the ill and their families during the pandemic.

"If there are any angels in heaven, they're all nurses. We know from our family experience what you do. The courage. The pain you absorb for others. So thank you. Thank you," Biden said at the Lincoln Memorial event.

Four hundred lights were turned on to honor the 400,000 Americans who died since the pandemic began in the U.S. one year ago.

"To heal, we must remember," * Biden continued in his brief remarks. "It's hard sometimes to remember, but that's how we heal. It's important to do that as a nation."

Biden was joined by Vice President-elect Kamala Harris, who called on Americans to unite through their mourning of lost loved ones.

"For many months, we have grieved by ourselves. Tonight, we grieve and begin healing together. Though we may be physically separated, we the American people are united in spirit."

~~~~

Be safe, be kind, the hard work continues. 

"What shall we not perhaps get over,..."*

 

The cats we have had as roommates and designated yard guards over the years: Comet and Sunspot (roomies), Phil (both, until he lost yard privileges), Kiki and Jackson (YG), and now Ursula and Zora, definitely roomies. Briefly we had a cat with us in Klamath Falls named Captain Jack (because of his eyeliner) who would have been a yard guard, but he was with us only as long as it took to look for who he belonged to -- no one claimed him -- and then I had him vaccinated and neutered. He left us shortly after that, as Jerry said with that kind of welcome why would you stay. Today I had to take Ursula to the vet with a condition we can only say is tied to her lymphoma diagnosis back in September. She’s also lost weight recently. She’s now on prednisone and she seems to be in no pain, she is still active and vocal and in charge. She of course was insulted by getting placed in the carrier and whisked away to the vet, blood taken and all those strangers prodding. Due to COVID protocol I was not allowed in, so that added to the indignity. But Ursula forgave me and we curled up together after lunch and took a short nap together. So now the time of Ursula. Ursula to spoil, Ursula to hunt down the sunny spot in the house, the best place to watch birds, the extra food that Zora will not get as she doesn’t need the extra food; we just got her weight stabilized. Just over a year ago we said goodbye to Comet. Now we will fill Ursula’s days, Zora’s. Damn these fur hearts and the holds they have. Be safe, be kind.

Here’s a poem by Quinn Baily from The Currents of the World (Homebound Publications, 2020) Thank you, again, Dragon for the book.

*Luck by Carl Phillips from The Tether

"...the lost ones, growing into the never-heard-of." *

Today was a day of worry and sorrow. Worry and sorrow for the world, the country, people I love, family, friends and my dear fur hearts. Outside it was blustery, I put out extra seed around the house for the birds and spent the morning trying to catch up on a couple of poetry blogs (both available along the right-hand side of this page) Deborah A. Miranda’s Bad NDNS and Devin Kelly’s Ordinary Plots: Meditations on Poems + Verse. I get both via email and will tell you that Miranda’s was very hard to read, I had to take breaks, her most current email sent out a number of older posts, all of which deserved extra attention and time. Posts that do a James Bond thing to my heart, I say shaken and stirred. Kelly’s, I like because it reminds me to slow down and really look at the poem, also I’m being introduced to a number of new poets – new to me.

That there is poetry available, no matter the subject matter, that one can swing through, right now, is a luxury. One I will hoard. As the world burns, as truth has to fight for air and light, as sad old ideas continue to come out of the shadow, out of the dark, out of the grave to ignite those who can only own this power, this delusion. I will continue to turn to poetry. Not as shield or a room to hide in but as a way to help me to talk to or consider what the liars are saying, to learn how to counter their arguments, their untruths, their twisting of language and logic. It will be like writing a sestina every day or a 100-word essay made of one syllable words, none of which you can use twice. (I did this once the topic was poetry, but it was a long time ago when my mind felt more nimble.) It will be like creating an epic poem on how to share the world and how it was never, ever just yours no matter what the history books or nights around the fire with your monochrome legend says.

Here is a poem, Nightriders * by Yusef Komunyakaa from Night Animals (Sarabande Books, 2020)

Like held lanterns, wavering*

I use to read up to 200 poems a week. I was active on some online poetry forums, for a while I was a moderator at a couple of these. I was active in real life poetry groups and prompt groups, I helped find funding and organize readings and workshops. I bought and checked out books of poetry, studied anthologies, encountered poets and found everything I could of theirs online and in print.  I had books of poetry around the house and in the car and whenever a moment of waiting occurred, I had a book of poems. I took poetry books to the gym sometimes gasping, with tears in my eyes, at some work which should have never been paired with an elliptical – but there you go. 

I thought about all of this as I opened a book of poems Monday by Jane Hirshfield, The October Palace, from 1994. I’m not sure where I got this copy, a book sale or a poetry event. It’s a used book and I hadn’t opened it until now. There are pages with holes, not formatted with huge amount of white space, but lines and stanzas that have just disappeared. On one page a title and the last two words of the poem remain. It’s quite something, but it made me realize that in the good old poetry days I would have found this a day or two after picking the book up. I would have sat down somewhere and opened it up, dipped in, read aloud. It tells me I need to read more, more poetry for sure. I’ve been sprinkling books around the house, opening them at random and reading. I’ve missed this and I’ve been negligent.

Last night I was able to hear a William Stafford Birthday reading sponsored by the Southern Oregon University Hannon Library. I was invited by the event host, a poetry pal from Oregon and there were poets I know and admire who read both their work and a poem by William Stafford. It was really very nice, wonderful to see and hear these poets. And I loved being at a reading in my nightgown. Part of the residual wonderfulness is that today another poet I know from Oregon has sent me an invitation to a reading next week. It has made me feel warm and connected. I may not care for Zoom workshops but the readings are good, good, good.

Here’s poem by Jack Gilbert. Be safe, be kind, in the words of another poet I listened to recently, the Trump Epoch is almost over.

*Jane Hirshfield, At Nightfall, from The October Palace

Cardinal Party

Be safe, be kind. 💗

 

Hello Muddah

I like to think, and if I think hard about it it is true, that my mother and I were close when I was younger (up until I was fifteen or so). I didn’t go out much, preferred home and my own thoughts. When I rambled, Mom listened. My mother was what would be termed now a stay-at-home mom, a SAHM. The term then was housewife, as though one was married to the house and, for a lot of women, I’m sure that’s how it felt. She cooked for us all, she cleaned, she made clothes, she grew a garden and canned, she crocheted and embroidered, she kept the books for Dad, she paid the bills, while we were at school and Dad was in the woods or driving truck, she was the ranch foreman, she looked after her mother, she chauffeured and shopped, attended sporting events and baked for bake sales; she was the chief cook and bottle washer (literally, the year we had twelve bummer lambs). I have never asked her if she was happy then, or if she is happy now. I am remiss. (The thirty (plus) year estrangement my father imposed frayed all tethers; I can still pull a thread tighter; repairs can be made.)

This week my sister tells me that after Mom’s last doctor appointment they returned to the car to hear that the Capitol was under siege; my mother began to seethe. And though she has not voted Republican much over the years she has always been a registered Republican. She’s going to change that. And because she does not have anything to do with the Internet, I imagine her down at the County Clerk’s office pen in hand. Probably on a day when she needs to pick up books at the library as the courthouse is across the street and if one needs to go out for anything now, combine errands.

I have this older poem, I’ll post, before I start a letter to my mother. Think about how to ask for forgiveness. Be safe, be kind.

I never wrote a poem for my mother
 
Opening the sachet drawer, everything of memory
falls into place: the spool knob handles, the diesel stained
coveralls hung by the door. Laundry, bleached, line dried,
starched and ironed. The whole day process that she
went through. The tub, the ringer, running the hose from
the hot water in the kitchen sink. The line, the board, the old
Seven-Up bottle for sprinkling. Even the soap
had been a process, a box of lye soap and flakes, top shelf
in the cellar, above the golden and garnet jars
canned each summer. She made the soap, cooking
it on the porch. And on the periphery, between this,
the ungrateful children moved through the house.
Off to bike, off to swim, off to curl on a bed with
a cat and a book. She made clothes and waxed furniture
played the piano, grew cabbage and potatoes, butchered
and plucked and cooked chicken. Was the work a greater
meditation? I don’t remember her ever reading to me,
but her books, a string of thread marking them, perched
on the counter by the bread, she was making
slid from the top of the laundry basket, held down
a pattern she was cutting. Did she welcome the sun
like we did? Ours, a chance to be out, while she stayed
at home, the house humming with only her thoughts
knowing that by noon we’d be in, that she’d have
to think about dinner, that somewhere in the late
afternoon, supper, my father’s return. His clothes
covered in the talc dust of the woods, pine pitch stuck
to his hands as he swung down off the truck.
I don’t recall him ever asking how her day was, what
we did, how was she. But then neither did we, ask. Satisfied
that this was drudgery and what was there to ask about.

When the present is overwhelming, revisit the past

Helen Rocks!

I wonder who Helen was
and if the one who immortalized
her on this rock, this highway
outcrop, is still in her life,
if indeed he ever was.
Or if she was some fair
girl, untouchable and lonely
as the boys watched her
from afar, and left this praise
in three-foot-high letters.
 
Along Highway 58, many
have stopped to add
a note, to paint some
declaration, some reminder
that they were here, were
in love. And I have used
this tablet as a way marker
a place to measure my travel.
 
On each trip, I wonder about
Helen. Does she still rock, did
she move on with her life
looking back at the time
her awesomeness was graffiti-ed
on a roadside wide spot? Or does
the boy who wrote this, who
knew Helen in that time,
drive past this place now a man
on his way to visit aging parents
the woman he married motionless
in the seat beside him
his children, sullen and silent
each plugged into their own world.
Does he think back, as he drives
does he smell the spray paint again, feel
Helen’s arms on his waist, as she
laughs in the night, her voice
echoing over the mountains,
over his heart.

Along Highway 58 between Klamath Falls and Eugene this rock had Helen Rocks! painted on it for years, and then one day it was painted over. The next trip over this appeared. 

Light the world

Today I took the tree down, packed away the decorations and brought in the wreaths from the front of the house. When we put the tree up it went into a room, we could lock the cats out of during the night. We’ve had cats for years and though Comet was well past tree climbing or bauble batting we have had the three A.M. crash as some feline toppled the tree (Phil!). Zora and Ursula did not touch the tree aside from the initial 'This is new' sniffing and a test bite or two. The entire time it was up one ball was found in the middle of the floor and Zora was sitting under a table nearby; not evidence of a crime and she swore it was there when she entered the room. I rehung it on a low branch and that’s where I took it from this morning. But I am not putting all the lights away. Ursula has spent every evening around the tree looking at the lights. It seemed to comfort her. So, I filled the big owl vase with lights and placed it where she has a few places to lounge; she’s there now in a cat bed under a table where the light falls over her. Small kindness for small beings.
 
Be safe, wear your mask. Be kind to those big and small and especially those who seem to not have enough kindness in their lives; we’re all here for the long haul.

Only these brief moments of exchange

Small Kindnesses by Danusha Laméris starts like this:

I’ve been thinking about the way, when you walk
down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs
to let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you”
when someone sneezes, a leftover
from the Bubonic plague. “Don’t die,” we are saying.

This seems an appropriate poem to read and reread today. Yesterday while the mob attacked our government 3,915 Americans died of COVID-19. Today, more than 4,000. The day is not done.

Here's a link to the poem. 

Wear your mask. Be safe. Be kind. Don't die.

Two horrors, one reprieve

 MOB

Kent Nishimura / Los Angeles Times

 

MOB BOSS

DOUG MILLS/BLOOMBERG/GETTY IMAGES

Be safe, be kind, if you have a member of Congress who supported this president and his conspiracies and lies, let them have it. Feel free to use Fascist lapdog if necessary, don't forget.

                                                       

If I could talk to the animals

On cold mornings filled with sun the birds are at home on the high branches; I caught this lone lady cardinal, sunning. It wasn’t warm yet, but yesterday was foggy most of the day, so she welcomed the sun. And I’m glad that she made me look up, the sky was clear, there were songs from all directions.  Over by the lonely pine the moon was still hanging out keeping the tree company. I was worried the other morning when this tree was weighed down with ice, it was almost like those people you see who are burdened and then something extra has been added on, bending them down. I think we’ve all been bent in that way, at times, sometimes for long stretches. It’s why I look up when I go out in the morning, looking for some special sight, maybe a particular tune. The past few weeks I’ve noticed that the squirrels have this plaintive call, that almost sounds like a plea. Whenever I hear it now, I have to find the squirrel and ask are you okay? Today when I asked, I swear the squirrel hissed and spit at me. Clearly, I have no idea about animal chatter. Be safe, be kind, look up and don’t ask squirrels questions, they’re prickly.

Bedtime Stories

 
When my children were small our night time routine was a lot of reading, reexamining the day, plans for the next day. Normal end of day things. Sometimes we skipped the reading and told our own stories, often these started easily enough but then turned into the fantastic and silly. The three-headed monster suddenly has twenty claws on each paw and shoots lasers from its butt (this seemed to happen in a lot of stories). I was thinking about all those eccentric and amazing stories today as I tried to understand the story, I read at bedtime last night.

It was the transcript from the call from the Cheeto and his “team” made to the Secretary of State from the fine state of Georgia (disclaimer here, I’ve been through Georgia a few times, it’s a solidly okay state, but I wouldn’t want to live there). Which is funny because that is actually touched upon in the story/transcript. The Washington Post now has an article up, à la Dear Abby: So I (65, M) got a telephone call from an older acquaintance in a position of power (74, M) that includes this: “Then he started to go on and on about how it was unlikely that anyone could ever move back to Georgia and legitimately vote here again after previously leaving the state? Which, I understand there are things in our electoral process that are pretty wacky, but the concept that somebody might want to move back to a state seems like a very weird one to latch onto as definitely untrue. But he kept going on about it. Literally, he was like: “How many people do that? They moved out, and then they said, ‘Ah, to hell with it, I’ll move back.’ You know, it doesn’t sound like a very normal … you mean, they moved out, and what, they missed it so much that they wanted to move back in? It’s crazy.”
 
But the entire transcript is full of conspiracy, lies and sadness. Sad that other cognizant humans, men and women, would join this madness and that the Secretary of State, Brad Raffensberger, would stay on the line that long for a spam call. I wouldn’t have. I may, or may not have, had fun with spam calls. Once, a young man called to tell me that my computer was in danger based on the IP address. After we covered the computer, don’t have one; the TV, I’ve never seen one; or the radio, what’s that? He called me very silly and we both laughed.

If anything good came from last night’s reading, it was thinking of bedtime in a land far, far away when I lived with a prince and a princess and we ruled over the kingdom of stories.

In lieu of

sunflower
your fur salts the morning
green horns ring the bonfire
of your bloom, shaming the sun
 

we stand as twins, mirrors
turning with day
as though light holds
us to earth
not gravity
or root
 
when afternoon gives way
to the lacquer of night
do not look too closely
 
we may be gone

~~M.E. Hope

Like glass-blown gloves

The second day of 2021 dawned cold, not ice encrusted like the first, just cold with the slightest of misty rain hovering, but no freeze. Yesterday, New Year’s Day, the pines were weighed down with the ice, the cardinals spent a great deal of time posing within the frozen branches. At one point two dozen cardinals were showing out. I sing “cardinal party!” when I see so many around the house. The entire lyric to the cardinal party song consists of cardinal party, cardinal party. So, anyone can learn and serenade the birds. I imagine you can sing it to any bird, just throw their name in. It might be awkward to sing tufted titmouse party, tufted titmouse party, so adjust your tunes as needed.

Deborah A. Miranda posted a poem called, The Bones of Things, to her blog Bad NDNS on New Year’s Eve that has this:

“… twiggy fingers encased in ice 
like glass-blown gloves.”

The poem is lovely and vivid and filled with surprise. That I have a picture to place with it just makes me smile. The poem is a bright spot. Something you should go and read now. Run don’t walk. Find someone to read it to. Be safe, be kind.