TS Eliot must have spent some time during Saskatchewan in winter, I think. After the glorious days of sunshine that we experienced this week, the tentative emergence of green shoots, the clear and dry roads, and the immense, communal uplifting of spirits, this is what I awoke to this morning:
It’s not very clear in the video, but the snow is still falling; lazily, blithely, and completely unconcerned about the horror it is creating among those who took their winter tires off their cars and retired the snow shovels and snow blowers to the darkest recesses of their garages. It’s the fifth day of April, and the car park is blanketed again.
In other, pre-It’s-F&*^ing-Snowing-Again-news, we spent a lovely evening in the dog-walking park beside the river on Tuesday. Jo Ann piled me and the five children into her car, parked beside the river, and we crossed under the huge Circle Drive bridge to the other side. It was a bit unnerving walking along the pedestrian bridge with huge trucks thundering overhead, but the views of the river were stunning, and the park was gorgeous.
It was full of people and bounding dogs, and the kids got to run around and climb trees, while Jo Ann and I caught up on the events of the week. We saw skeins of Brent geese flying overhead, and I was telling Jo Ann how we used to go to the Slobs in Wexford to see them on the Irish leg of their long journey. Little did I know that one day I would be watching them return to Canadian skies.