By Thomas Hardy
Every branch big with it,
Bent every twig with it;
Every fork like a white web-foot;
Every street and pavement mute:
Some flakes have lost their way, and grope back upward when
Meeting those meandering down they turn and descend again.
The palings are glued together like a wall,
And there is no waft of wind with the fleecy fall.
A sparrow enters the tree,
Whereon immediately
A snow-lump thrice his own slight size
Descends on him and showers his head and eye
And overturns him,
And near inurns him,
And lights on a nether twig, when its brush
Starts off a volley of other lodging lumps with a rush.
The steps are a blanched slope,
Up which, with feeble hope,
A black cat comes, wide-eyed and thin;
And we take him in.
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My Sunday was about snow, football, and television, so I will be brief and boring. We had a lot of digging out to do, which was enlivened by getting to talk to a whole bunch of neighbors doing the same, but my back is sore and a lot is going to have to be dug again tomorrow because of where the plows pushed snow and how low the temperatures are tonight. I had no passionate feelings about the NFL championships games, but it's a pity Arizona didn't even seem to show up.
At least, because the score was so skewed, I was not at all sorry to switch over and watch Galavant, which did a Grease parody that was hilarious and brought back the unicorn, plus finally gave Isabella better lines, so that's all good. As for The X-Files, it is such a pleasure to see Mulder, Scully, and Skinner again, but the alien conspiracy theories seem so anachronistic and retro now that I snickered inappropriately a few times. Some pics of snow, cats, and me posing with both:
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