A little good news is never out of place, and yesterday I heard a wonderful piece on NBC News. With fewer cars and airplanes in motion, air pollution has decreased dramatically. Well, we know that already, but the core of the video reminds us that although we started late preparing for the coronavirus pandemic, we have picked up the pace. Likewise, we are late addressing global warming, but if we have the will (and realize the consequences of ignoring the issue) all is not lost: we can pick up the pace.
With so much chatter about fake news, I really liked the video, but those who were speaking were not identified. Just who were these people? Folks down at the local bar? Folks at the gym? I can assume from the content that those presenting were experts, but what was NBC thinking? Their obligation is to identify the ‘experts’ by name and affiliation and expertise!
Check it out.
Speaking of pollution, I don’t now if this is evident in your part of the word, but the Colorado sky has never been bluer. We’re under a big blue bowl colored like a pristine paint chip from Sherwin Williams.
Most amazing of all is the lack of con trails! Living in Colorado, we are smack-dab on the airlines’ east/west express route to and from California. At any one time, at least one plane is overhead, and about 4:30 p.m., it is possible to see seven or eight planes. Yesterday, standing in the front yard with a couple of neighbors (six feet apart separated by a fence) we looked up and marveled. Not one con trail! The sky was unsoiled. Quiet. Maybe we were living under a self-contained dome on another planet.
Time, that ever-ticking clock has stopped!
A couple of journal entries ago, I mentioned my swearing off alcohol, but I’m not as squeaky clean as my deceased mother would have liked. I’ve upped my coffee habit. And thinking of that, I remember a poem that I wrote… maybe 30/35 years ago.
“Full-Bodied and Robust”
I’m immediately drawn to his eyes.
They see through me
and bathe me in a Latin heatwave.
Mist rises from the sandy soil
of the highland plantation.
Above, snow-capped mountains
diminish the people
and magnify their passions.
I walk toward him.
My eyes take in his olive skin,
His poncho and his Panama hat.
His full mustache
Barely hides a knowing smile.
My senses –
like single raindrops
melding into one another –
The alarm clock rings.
In a flash Juan Valdez fades
and I wake up to smell the coffee.
I would like to write that “I worked in the garden today.” But having lived in England for a number of years, I’m aware that we don’t have a garden; rather, because of the construction project on the west side of the house, we have what the Brits would call a “yard.” The words ‘garden’ and ‘yard’ are not to be confused. A ‘garden’ is a thing of beauty: trees, flowers, ornamental grasses and bird houses. A ‘yard’ is out back by the garden shed and is a good place for car repairs, a lawn mower, rakes, and a broken bicycle.
To be perfectly truthful, our ‘yard’ is (and will be for another month) a building site. The airlock (to called a ‘solarium’ so as not to confuse it with the airlock on the east side of the house) is nearly finished except for re-doing the roof over the solarium. Whether or not we will have grass this summer is unknown.
That said, to the back of the house, the first bulb has shown her face. She’s a beauty.
A bright light in the dark world of coronavirus.