On New Year’s Eve we drove around with the top down on the Miata to view fireworks. On Saturday we rode to the park with the top down again, and walked our laps in short sleeves. Now, this is my idea of winter!
Then on Sunday night it snowed. The weather whiplash prompted the following poem:
Weather or Not It’s Climb-It Change, I Don’t Know
"If you don't like the weather, just wait 15 minutes and it'll change."
I've heard older locals say that
in every state ever I've lived or visited,
as if it were something uniquely true
and rightfully claimed by their territory.
Maybe that is what climate change is to my parents' generation---
a fleet of clouds and thunderstorms on a warm day
that pulls a cold front across the sky, like a tugboat
pulling a barge up the river;
or an afternoon sun that appears
and removes any evidence
and conviction of a brief morning snow.
I'm not sure what my parents would say
about the sudden wildfires outside Boulder
extinguished by a snow storm,
besides calling it a miracle, and telling me that
nature is a force, that God is in charge, and we're
just along for the wild ride, with no responsibility
but to hang on.