This time last year Myosotis and Oxalis were blooming and maybe an Iris. The Blood Root would have flowered two maybe three weeks ago, and if a person looked toward woodland they could have seen a mist of green and they could have felt that sense of gaining humidity that means mold and mushroom bloom, a perfect storm for corporate entities that first manufacture, then double the cost of production before they distribute to Grocery Stores, often quite useless medications designed to make it possible to walk upright without falling over from dizziness and sneezing.
This year we've had none of that sort of nonsense just yet. Drifts of cold clean air from the more disciplined Arctic regions, crisp from the ice sheets and scented only by the breath of sleeping Polar Bears, are still rambling around taking photographs and jotting down postcards for the grandchildren back home. They'll sit on top of the barn, point and start to laugh when I don't wear the woolly hat, the big boots and a jacket that's under the coat that's under the overcoat. And you know damn well these caterwaulers are employed by lobbyists for heating fuel interests because they don't carry banners.