We got a good sprinkling of ice last night, but far less than the kind of winter storm that much of the country got last night. I'll get in my car and roller skate into work soon.
I've been reading a chapbook of poetry called Like Saul, by Francine Marie Tolf. I enjoy these poems--well-crafted accessible free verse, building sturdy but ethereal images of interconnection and making and losing contact with the world and the critters in it. Her website mentioned a nature retreat in the north to which people repaired to write, and I imagined sitting, keyboard at the ready, as dragonflies soared around a pond.
We watched the PBS documentary last night about the Canadian monarch butterflies. Imagine--three generations fly north, living a month each, while a fourth generation flies south, living nine months and traveling
two thousand miles. We see the migrant ones in August, lollygagging in the heat. They fly on the lightest and most fatigued wings known, heading to the mountains in Mexico.