Saturday, February 11, 2006
Seeing Into the Future (and a poem by James Wright)
So, below is the latest from NOAA, the outfit that Rick Santorum wants to privatize so his buddies can make money off it. Should I not post Sunday, usually a big bloggy day, this will be why. That "dangerous and life-threatening conditions" thing always attracts my attention; I recall that wording prior to Katrina and to last year's blizzard, which left us snowed-in and frozen for several days until we found a front-loader to dig us out. If it occurs, it will also be puppy's first blizzard--can we really keep her in all day? They say not to go outdoors when the white-out occurs lest one become disoriented (we're a bit disoriented anyhow in general, are we not?), but maybe we'll tie a rope to the front door or something. Trail of crumbs? And if the electricity stays on we'll be blogging and watching cricket of all things happening far far away somewhere where it's summer.
THE NATIONAL WEATHER SERVICE HAS ISSUED A BLIZZARD WARNING WHICH IS IN EFFECT FROM 1 AM TO 7 PM EST SUNDAY.
BLIZZARD CONDITIONS ARE POSSIBLE WITH SNOWFALL RATES NEAR 3 INCHES PER HOUR. NORTHEAST WINDS GUSTING AS HIGH AS 60 MPH MAY PRODUCE WHITE OUT CONDITIONS WITH NEAR ZERO VISIBILITY. SNOW TOTALS OF 2 FEET ARE POSSIBLE
THIS IS A DANGEROUS AND LIFE THREATENING SITUATION. TRAVEL DURING THE HEIGHT OF THE STORM ON SUNDAY WILL BE SERIOUSLY IMPACTED BY THE COMBINATION OF STRONG WINDS POOR VISIBILITY AND SNOW COVERED ROADS.
A BLIZZARD WARNING IS ISSUED WHEN SUSTAINED WINDS OR FREQUENT GUSTS OVER 35 MPH ARE EXPECTED WITH CONSIDERABLE FALLING AND/OR BLOWING AND DRIFTING SNOW. VISIBILITIES WILL BECOME POOR WITH WHITEOUT CONDITIONS AT TIMES. THOSE VENTURING OUTDOORS MAY BECOME LOST OR DISORIENTED...SO PERSONS IN THE WARNING AREA ARE ADVISED TO STAY
A Winter Daybreak Above Venice
The night's drifts
Pile up below me and behind my back,
Slide down the hill, rise again, and build
Eerie little dunes on the roof of the house.
In the valley below me,
Miles between me and the town of St.-Jeannet,
The road lamps glow.
They are so cold, they might as well be dark.
Trucks and cars
Cough and drone down there between the golden
Coffins of greenhouses, the startled squawk
Of a rooster claws heavily across
A grove, and drowns.
The gumming snarl of some grouchy dog sounds,
And a man bitterly shifts his broken gears.
True night still hangs on,
Mist cluttered with a racket of its own.
Now on the mountainside,
A little way downhill among turning rucks,
A square takes form in the side of a dim wall.
I hear a bucket rattle or something, tinny,
No other stirring behind the dim face
Of the goatherd's house. I imagine
His goats are still sleeping, dreaming
Of the fresh roses
Beyond the walls of the greenhouse below them.
And of lettuce leaves opening in Tunisia.
I turn, and somehow
Impossibly hovering in the air over everything,
The Mediterranean, nearer to the moon
Than this mountain is, Shines. A voice clearly
Tells me to snap out of it. Galway
Mutters out of the house and up the stone stairs
To start the motor. The moon and the stars
Suddenly flicker out, and the whole mountain
Appears, pale as a shell.
Look, the sea has not fallen and broken
Our heads. How can I feel so warm
Here in the dead center of January? I can
Scarcely believe it, and yet I have to, this is
The only life I have. I get up from the stone.
My body mumbles something unseemly
And follows me. Now we are all sitting here strangely
On top of sunlight.