There's no boat to take me where all the stars go to cross the water
It has been snowing lightly and steadily since I woke this morning. Those five hours of sleep were the most I have gotten in a seven-day week. At the moment a sort of bleach-silvered effect has started around the overcast sun: it seems to make the west-facing windows across the street reflect mercury-green. There were sunshowers in the snowfall, but not while I was out walking.
The yew tree outside my office window has turned into an icefall.
Winter advances, shrugging the fences aside.
The stump is bedded in snow and capped for some reason with a short stack of traffic cones, but the fungus that![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
luzula identified for me in December unfurls its undaunted shelves. There may still be some Schizophyllum commune fuzzed in there, too.
We decided this one was a Ganoderma, although at the moment it's an awning.
I found a whole side yard of dead hydrangeas. They had become paper art.
The telephone wires like a circus act.
The stairs into the snow.
I can tell that my ability to think in media is reviving because in twenty-six years it had never occurred to me to fancast Stefan Fabbre and all of a sudden I thought that, fair-haired, dry-voiced, the moody, unsteady one in the family, in 1975 he would have been in Clive Francis' wheelhouse.gwynnega has suggested that Millard Lampell deserves his own Library of America volume and I'd order it in a hot second.
The yew tree outside my office window has turned into an icefall.
Winter advances, shrugging the fences aside.
The stump is bedded in snow and capped for some reason with a short stack of traffic cones, but the fungus that
luzula identified for me in December unfurls its undaunted shelves. There may still be some Schizophyllum commune fuzzed in there, too.
We decided this one was a Ganoderma, although at the moment it's an awning.
I found a whole side yard of dead hydrangeas. They had become paper art.
The telephone wires like a circus act.
The stairs into the snow.
I can tell that my ability to think in media is reviving because in twenty-six years it had never occurred to me to fancast Stefan Fabbre and all of a sudden I thought that, fair-haired, dry-voiced, the moody, unsteady one in the family, in 1975 he would have been in Clive Francis' wheelhouse.
gwynnega has suggested that Millard Lampell deserves his own Library of America volume and I'd order it in a hot second.