Posts Tagged ‘freezing rain’
apple orchard after the ice storm
On Saturday, we went for a drive to see the results of last week’s freezing rain storm. Every tree sparkled with its layer of frozen water. When we stopped by the roadside to take some photos, the sound of cracking ice made a continuous stippling noise in the forest.
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I was amazed at the odd miniaturized appearance of the ice-covered apple trees in an orchard not far from our cabin. The trees are normal sized but there is a lack of scale and weirdness of light in the photos that miniaturizes the entire scene. The third photo, including the ploughed side road, looks more normal.
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I think this will be our last winter storm of the season. We still have snow on the ground but next week’s warming should take it all away!
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Copyright 2016 Jane Tims
a moment of beautiful – icicles
the space: drip line of a house on a winter day
the beautiful: icicles
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On the day after an increase in temperature, when the snow from the roof is melting, the front of our house, on the south side and in full sun, is always dripping and making icicles.
They glitter and sparkle, sculptural wonders of frozen water.
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ice storm
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for three days
freezing rain and willow
have hung uncertain magic
along the river
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ice in layers
laid on the bones
of the tree tops, branches break
candy-coats crack in the sun
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I refuse the sparkle
resist the awe
worry
the bones will not recover
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© Jane Tims 2009
eight days – ice storm
During my eight-day stay in Ontario, the highlight of uncertain weather was an ice storm. The freezing rain fell for hours and coated every surface with a layer of icy glass.
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freezing rain
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trees, bare branches, wait
wood snaps in the stove
budgies peck at cuttle bone
pellets of rain, tossed
at the skylight
a second transparency
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bare twigs turn in wind
to even their coating
in these last moments
before temperature turns
the snowpack on the picnic table
shrinks at the edges
shoves over, makes room
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branches gloss so gradually
candles dipped in a vat of wax
over and over, acquiring thickness
the sky, through the skylight
dimpled tile, rumpled mosaic
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rain stipples bark as narrative
appends to memory, pane here,
light there, layers of glass
cedar twigs turn downward
as fingers, ice builds
layers of skin
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© Jane Tims 2012
at the bird feeder #3
I am amazed at the volume of seeds these little visitors eat.
The deer, racoons and squirrels take their unfair share, of course. Last year, I watched a deer attack the feeder with its tongue, scooping up every bit of seed in a matter of minutes. Even without the deer and racoons and squirrels, the birds descend in a flock and the food is soon reduced to a scattering of seed-husks.
We have come to a conclusion – next year we will put up a mammal-proof feeder. My brother-in-law has it figured out. He has installed a large cedar post in an open area and encased it in aluminum pipe and flashing. Enough seed falls on the ground to give a treat to the squirrels and other marauders, and the birds are the focus of the money-drain.
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feeding the birds
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I wait, no patience to speak of
for the next bird to find
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this food more delicious than seed offered
by my neighbour, swears
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he had cardinals, mine the left-over
chickadees and nuthatches, flocks of redpoll
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litter the feeder, red-dotted heads, their toes
grip courtesy branches, a perch
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impossible to find, after the freezing rain, branches
encased in slip-and-slide, candy-coated nutrition
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won by complication, every kernel harder than stone
seed in a casing of black, sunflower
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and pencil draw the finches, grosbeaks smash seed-coats
with deliberate jaws, shards of sunflower husk and ice-coat
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fall as rubble
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© Jane Tims 2012
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