Shivering is truly another facet of Iowa. So is starkness. I'm grateful to have a poet's sensibilities which allow me to look at the frozen ponds, the oak and walnut trees wind-stripped and now in deep prayer as they wait for spring.
I drive past fields harvested to brittle, broken stalks where farmers let their cattle forage for bits of seed corn and silage.
I counted three bald eagles circling the nearly iced-over Maquoketa River today, hoping to snag a fish come up from the deeper waters. On the fence posts, hawks watch the ditches for the quiet movement of a vole or rabbit among the burst cattails and milkweed.
As a poet, all my senses ride shotgun; the wind howling down the river valley, the dusty smell of old barn board, the frigid blast of bitter cold when I take the dogs out at four a.m., the crisp chill of the well water from the tap, the sudden glimpse of a snowy owl vigilant in a tree on my way home from work today.
The dark arrives early these days, and it does seem like my day is shorter, that time has run out and I'll have to begin another day in mere hours. But here in the Big Woods, it means the stars come out sooner, and against the clear, cold black sky, shine so brightly they steal my breath.
Let winter come. I will find new words for it.
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