Because the house is brick, it doesn’t shake from wind. My window doesn’t even rattle. But when the trees roil and rumble, when the powerlines dance, the wind whisks and forces itself through the smallest spaces. I can feel it if I hold a hand up near our porch doorway.

The pitch of the wind is about that of a whistle. Except it is thinner, and whorling–one can hear how it turns in upon itself, creating its own tunnel and rushing to meet its pitch.

Windstorms–not blizzards, but wind with rain–are an odd thing for a Montreal February. I am hoping not too much rain melts and freezes the top of the snowpack–as an aside, this is a major impact of climate change on animals in the boreal and tundra: they starve because the lichens and mosses in their winter ranges become glassed in, and the animals cannot chip through the ice enough to feed.

My freeze-up complications are comparatively minor: Wednesday I plan chase the lunar eclipse up Mont Royal (unless it is cloudy), which will become difficult if the escarpment is icy.

I hope I can convince people to climb with me.

I am too tired tonight. But perhaps tomorrow I will put up an excerpt from Don McKay’s Another Gravity –one of his moonpoems.

Or maybe not, ’cause you can already find one of them elsewhere in this blog (oct 2006).

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