The Hardy Boys and the New Ice Age

The loudest noise in our house is the ink jet, printing letters.
The loudest noise in our neighborhood is the sound of snow falling.

There are no cars going down the street.
Earlier, Mari reports, she saw a city snow plow (you know,
government plow; tax money plow) clear the street,
but right now, it is difficult to see that there even is a street
between our house and the neighbors across the way.

Squadrons of goldfinches, downy woodpeckers, chicadees,
and what I assume are sparrows, attack our hanging bird feeders.
A single oak leaf, caught by the wind, tumbles aimlessly
across our yard, orphaned by relentless snow.

On TV, giddy reporters are celebrating what they say
will be one of the heaviest snowfalls in Minnesota history.
Even though only a foot or two will fall, the wind is stiff,
and the temperature is falling to minus Fahrenheit numbers.

None of this is malicious, but it is relentless. And quiet.

There will be flurries of pointless snowfall measurements
as people rush out with their yardsticks to measure
the drifts. We love to exaggerate our disasters,
demonstrating that we are a hardy, good-humored lot.

Blowing snow, late tonight, or tomorrow, will be an adventure.
We live in a drift area. I guess we all do, now. Blowing snow
into the wind is silly, but sometimes it is the only option.

Mostly, I think about the heater I just replaced downstairs
that keeps the pipes from freezing. It was twenty-five
or thirty years old, as is the main furnace. But I exaggerate
the danger, just to show I am hardy, and good-humored.

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