Striped icebergs are quite a view. They can form a couple different ways. Blue stripes occur when layers of ice melt and refreeze so fast that no bubbles — which scatter light to give icebergs their white appearance — are created. If the water that freezes is rich in algae, the bands may appear green. Black, brown, and yellow striations are created by sediments picked up by a glacier as it runs down a mountain into the ocean.
There’s ice and snow outside today, so I may as well focus on how cool and beautiful it can be.
“ Now that we’ve established that poetry is work, let’s move on to questions of productivity. How much should a poet produce, ideally? As much as one half-assed garden, planted by a person with a drinking problem, who did not read the directions on the seed-packets very closely. Elizabeth Bishop only ever wrote one poem, a villanelle about an elk breaking up with her (“The Elk Breaks Up with Me”), and if I may say so she did very well with it. Wallace Stevens only wrote five poems, and every one of them was insured for one million dollars, like a famous pair of legs. The greatest living poet, Nicolas Cage, continues to amaze us by never having written a poem at all.”
Is the perfect time to watch the great 90s classic One Fine Day.
24-year-old photographer Asher Svidensky recently traveled to west Mongolia with the intention of documenting the lives of traditional Kazakh eagle hunters, people who tame eagles for the purpose of hunting smaller animals.
With the traditions typically laying in the hands of the boys and the men, the biggest surprise throughout the journey was Svidensky’s discovery of a young eagle huntress, 13-year-old Ashol Pan, the daughter of an experienced eagle hunter. These stunning photographs symbolize the potential future of the eagle hunting tradition as it expands beyond a male-only practice.
“ Want to hear something poetic? If you were standing on the Moon during the deepest times of the eclipse, from your view you’re seeing all the sunrises and sunsets on earth at that moment.”
Boozy afternoon music plus some shockingly warm and sunny weather is making me feel like I’m in the third act of a movie with a happy ending.
I’m terrible at identifying birds based on their chirps, but there’s a winged creature in the yard that’s making sounds like an old Atari game, and it might be my favorite bird I’ve ever heard.
There’s also a pair of cardinals dancing around on the back bushes, which I only just now realized are budding with tiny green leaves. It feels jubilant outside. Every sound seems to be celebrating spring. My neighborhood is a hive of activity. I can hear lots of leaves being raked and everyone’s got a radio on keeping them company in the yard, and something about the warmth is making me want to be productive and do a thousand things. But at the same time, I’m enjoying just sitting still in the sun for a few minutes, listening to Creedence, and watching bumblebees the size of my thumb flit around to all the new green stuff popping up.
One of the most difficult winters of my life is so definitively over. I almost can’t remember the last time I felt this content.