March 2nd, 2010

This Bites

Spring? Is that you?

The weather is finally starting to warm.  It's up into the 40's and there are patches of bare ground beginning to appear.  It's still well below freezing at night (it got down to about 10°F last night), so things are starting to get rather icy.  The forecast calls for temps to get into the 50's by Monday, but the Climate Prediction Center is forecasting below average temperatures in their 8-14 day and one month outlooks. 

My car has been trapped in the garage for over 3 months now.  There's still a considerable depth of snow in front of the door, so even with these warmer temps, it will likely still be weeks before it's clear, and even longer before the mud dries out enough to actually drive through.
Memetic Hazard

Poetry Meme

When you see this, post a poem in your journal


To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up in Her Nest, with the Plough
Robert Burns

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty
Wi bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murdering pattle.

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth born companion
An' fellow mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't.

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's win's ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld.

But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

Still thou are blest, compared wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!