Friday, February 19, 2010
Drip . . .drip . . .drip . . .
Nine o'clock in the morning, thirty-six degrees, drip . . .drip. . . drip! Have you others who live in snow-clad regions heard it? Drip . . .drip . . .drip.
Music comes off the rooftops, forming as the overflowing gutters drip . . .drip . . .drip.
The brilliant sun writes the melody. Heat is the conductor. Music from the logos drips in varying pitches that compete for attention under a perfect blue sky.
One front corner drips on a metal seed can bringing the sounds of Tobago pan to my ears . . .dr-clank, dr-clank!
The background chorus comes from shadows of robins singing from the trees, impatiently waiting for the melting snow to leave bare an earthworm meal.
Not only music for the ears but there is music for the eyes wherever I look. The ice crystals on the sidewalk disappear rapidly as light melts away the shadow that protects them.
The metal sheet of the Dance Hall roof has formed a wide ribon of snow quietly curling until it falls from its own weight. The snow bends under as if it wants to finally see what has been suspending it these long weeks.
Last night a possum crawled under the firewood by the front door as Jeff brought wood in to stoke the fires for the night. The possum was hard to see huddled there between the wood and stone wall. Jeff offered to pull him out by his tail for me to take a photograph, but it seemed best to leave the possum alone. We knew that it would soon be out cleaning up any scraps the birds had left around the feeders.