Mulling things on my morning ramble with Storm, the family's mixed Lab.
I think Steve C Schuning nailed it yesterday on Facebook when he messaged,``It's gonna sink.''
I believe that day is here for the ice shanty. It is slowly sinking through the shrinking ice cap on the south end of the south old clay pit and about to become de facto fishing cover or structure.
I am surprised. The ice fishermen built an inexpensive ice shanty, but there was some cost. You don't buy 3/4-inch plywood in 4 x 8 sheets for pennies.
Then again, maybe they will push a cartopper boat over the ice and rescue it.
Too bad, I had hoped to get my two youngest kids to fish out of it. Maybe next year.
In the mean time, I know exactly where it will be, if it is now cover.
Set out this morning again to the building racket of robins. (Yes, I do kind of like that phrasing.)
Yet another miserably gray morning. Just small faint snow pellets you really had to look for to see.
As the grayness lightened toward a faint dawn, so many mourning doves began cooing and fluttering around that I didn't bother counting them.
As we reached the town pond, I heard only a few red-winged blackbirds trilling. I wonder if all the open water has them dispersed more.
A pair of wood ducks exploded from the water as we neared the bridge over the neckdown between the two pits.
I checked the island, but the Canada geese were not nesting yet. I found them swimming by point off the old boat launch.
As I was taking photos of the sinking ice shanty, the geese swam over to the edge of the ice to watch.
It amused me.
More Canada geese honked on the lake to the west.
The weather finally eased enough yesterday that the ground thawed.
So we dug a hole in the yard, back by the raspberries, to bury Hannah. January is the cruelest month for guinea pigs. Hannah, our second boy's pig set a family record of living for five years. But at the end of January she died, right about the time we started having some actual winter. So we had to hold off burying her until the ground thawed.
The rain and warmth finally did the trick yesterday.
As we shared memories of Hannah, I had the unholy thought that Dead Guinea Pigs sounds like an ideal name for a suburban punk band from out of the 1980s. But I digress to my younger, wilder, years.
Six Canada geese flew low over town as we neared home.