Talking About the Weather (in MT)

Talk about the Weather (in Montana): The air is cool this morning. Much needed rain has pummeled our lawns and the surrounding trees off and on for two days, with the chance of lighter showers this afternoon. Summer heat has not yet arrived, though our springtime temperatures have touched 80 degrees Fahrenheit twice in the past week. Two market bunnies, both mostly white with sharp black spots and stripes, have decided our lawn is a lovely place to graze. They are descendants of bunnies let loose by people who left the area four or five years ago, and now are pretty wild. They are cautious around people, but at the same time they are not averse to a carroty handout or a few unpeeled grapes. We have also seen more cottontails this year than ever before, the natural bunny for the area. Our white tailed deer have become a bit more scarce of late as the yearlings seem to be branching out on their own. Two young bucks with just the buds of a rack beginning to decorate their heads come by now and then, plus one doe who looks to be expecting. It’s late for that; we worry that the fawn to come will be big enough and strong enough to face the winter. Prognosticator Roy thinks winter will be as light for us as last year, or lighter, but what does he know? He isn’t a climatologist, or even a meteorologist. He’s just a watcher. Still, his final determination won’t be made until the July moth population invades Joe Blogz, where he works. Many moths equal a heavier winter. Smaller numbers indicate a milder one. Last year Lakeside had a very small moth incursion while Missoula down south had a heavier one, and Missoula had twice as much snow as we did . . . just saying. There’s poetry in the trees, swaying gently, catching water and storing it to drop ignominiously on your head when you venture out, or offering shade in the sunshine and a nearly safe haven for all sorts of creatures, and a lunch counter for others. There’s poetry in the lake, Flathead Lake, whose colors change with the sunlight like a mood ring on the finger of the planet. There is poetry in the wild turkeys who gather, the males on full display, the females with a “whatever” attitude, at the top of our driveway and then cruise through our lawn, maybe stopping to hunt for grubs or freebees. There is poetry in all the distraction from my own poetry, knowing that when the sun goes down I might draw inspiration instead. And the stars, the stars overhead on a clear and moonless night, are pinpoints of poems written long ago just waiting to be read.