By Charles G.D. Roberts
I hear the low wind wash the softening snow,
The low tide loiter down the shore. The night,
Full filled with April forecast, hath no light.
The salt wave on the sedge-flat pulses slow.
Through the hid furrows lisp in murmurous flow
The thaw’s shy ministers; and hark! The height
Of heaven grows weird and loud with unseen flight
Of strong hosts prophesying as they go!
High through the drenched and hollow night their wings
Beat northward hard on winter’s trail. The sound
Of their confused and solemn voices, borne
Athwart the dark to their long arctic morn,
Comes with a sanction and an awe profound,
A boding of unknown, foreshadowed things.
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I had a lot of chores to do on Friday so this won't be an exciting entry. It was Paul's last day of work at the place he's been for the past twenty years -- well, technically the last day is on Sunday, but since the office is closed between now, the people taking over the work in India had better know how to fix any long distance crises by now -- so he went to drop off his laptop and blackberry. When we dropped Maddy off at work, we left the car to get one of the tires fixed, since it had lost pressure for the third time in two weeks. The puncture wasn't large but because of the location it had to be replaced.
We had dinner with my parents, who had Valentine presents for us but I forgot our Valentine presents for them. Then we came home and caught up on Blindspot, whose conspiracy this season is not making a lot of sense; I miss when it was family drama and clues from tattoos and less convoluted conspiracy centered on Weller. Now we're watching ninth season Bones, where I would be willing to forgive the increasingly gross corpses but the Pelant crap will not die and that's more annoying. Here are some photos from Great Falls last month when the vultures and geese were out in greater numbers than the tourists:
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