Sunday, March 18, 2007


I woke during the night a couple of times because it was so quiet; no deer horns rattling the bamboo, no wild pigs rooting where I used to plant potatoes, no monkey garden-squads gathering in the neighboring oaks for a dawn strike, no wind in the cedars, no tip-toeing pheasants, not even a croak from Dr. Crow. This morning I looked out the window and realized why: everything was white.

The snow had finally remembered what it was supposed to be doing, but it's a little late. It would have been welcome a month ago, when I was psychologically hunkered in for winter and laden with firewood; now I'm itching to get at the soil with my bare hands, so these flakes in my face are a noisome anomaly, as I point out to the sky in no uncertain terms. But as life has repeatedly indicated, the sky is not in the habit of listening to one R. Brady (SkyFile 12573086), although the Sky Manager is clearly aware of my intentions and my schedule. Still, we get along well together, the sky doing its thing while I do mine.

Planting seeds in snow might be pushing it, though. Even so, I hope it will be summer tomorrow, what with the spike in North Pole property values and the increasing popularity of Antarctic beach resorts...

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