Poetry, by Davis Swan (h/t to Dr. Judith Curry)
T’was the night before Christmas and all through the town
The temperature was dropping, going down, down, down, down
The weatherman said that a front was to blame
A high pressure ridge from Alaska he claimed
It sat like a lump on the hard prairie stubble
Refusing to budge, clearly looking for trouble
On the map it was grinning, toothy and blue
From Montana through Texas to the Long Island zoo
And under that dome of slow falling air
Grew a problem so nasty it hardly seemed fair
For the flags hung like rags across the mid-west
Not a whisper of wind to wake them from rest
Outside of the town the turbines stopped spinning
On the weatherman’s map the cold front kept grinning
At the company office the manager frowned
As the power from the wind farms kept going down
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