Cold Feet

I love icicles. Watching them grow is a great way to pass the winter. (You can file that under John’s perennial question, “You sure you’re not a stoner?” Yes, I’m sure. Because why would I spend money to get like I already am?) We had one enormous ice-o-lith that spent weeks slowly reaching and reaching down from the corner of the porch roof to the surface of the snow. One melty day last week it finally connected into a great column of ice; by nightfall the jointure was as big around as my wrist. I was particularly glad it had connected a day later when we had to knock it down because the ice jam was backing up the melt water into the porch roof and raining it down on the front door.

After the ice column my next favorite icicles of this winter have been the chickenfeet. The actual chickens have been locked in the Hen Room for weeks to keep the starlings from cleaning out the feed (you would not believe how much feed a hundred starlings can eat in a day). I miss the hens. I want spring to come. But meanwhile we have these clear glossy chicken feet hanging from every eave like some kind of fairy tale freak show to remind us of warmer times. And no, I don’t drop acid either. Because why would I bother?