January 10: Crescent Moon

long afternoon

printing out tax forms

crescent moon

November 4: Driving to work

Clear morning, long drive--
rehearsing what to say
in my head.

February 13: Inside/outside

After an afternoon of closed-door committee meetings, the air in the conference room at work was  over-warm and a bit stale. So by the time I joined the day's last meeting at 4:00, a window was cracked open. (After all, it was above freezing outside--virtually tropical compared to last week.) Sitting there, I picked up an odd sound behind the chatter of lively discussion going on around me. It took me a minute or so to realize it was chickadees, queuing up outside in the bushes that run along the front of the building to where my bird feeders are. This was their usual late afternoon final pass at the feeders, but it's been so long since there's been a window open, it was almost surprising to hear how noisy they were--audible even over all the noisy humans gabbing away inside.

Gossipers around
the water cooler--chickadees
outside, us inside.

February 11: At work

During a serious meeting
we all pause
to watch a cardinal.

November 21: Eagle visitation

Since my office is on the Megunticook River, we're often visited by geese, various ducks, and the occasional Osprey or Bald Eagle following the water path either inland to the lake or downriver to Camden Harbor. This morning before work, as I was out combing the bushes for a Pine Grosbeak, an eagle flew downriver to perch across the water right in front of me. Immediately, about a dozen ducks panicked and flew out of range.

The eagle preened and looked around for a while, but mostly just sat there--a full-grown adult with white head and tail, meaning it was at least four years old. With binoculars I could see its bright yellow bill and notice that its head feathers were a bit dingy. Perhaps it's the same bird we often see perched on that snag or on the dead tree at the edge of our parking lot. A little while after I went inside, my co-workers and I watched it fly low just past the office windows, giving us a perfect view. In this season of gratitude, I feel grateful indeed that eagles are a regular visitor to my neighborhood. And equally grateful that observing these dramatic birds of prey is just another, acceptable part of my work day.

Another work day,
another eagle. I hope
I never get used to it.

September 12: Sapsucker

Visited one of the Land Trust preserves where volunteers are helping to build new bridge out of logs hewn on-site. While four guys toiled away with hammers and drills in a manly fashion, sweating and swearing, I watched a young male yellow-bellied sapsucker peck his way up a tree, slowly and quietly garnering a meal.

Four men roll logs, drill
holes, hammer spikes. Overhead,
sapsucker's soft taps.

July 10: Beech Hill kind of afternoon

Today was one of those days I truly loved my job: enjoyed a business lunch on the sunny outside deck of the Waterfront on Camden Harbor, spent a couple of hours in the office, then led a group up Beech Hill in Rockport for the rest of my afternoon. If you have to work, what better way to enjoy a perfect summer day here in midcoast Maine?

Here's how this idyllic day looked from up there:

View of Penobscot Bay from Beech Hill

View of Ragged Mountain from the road

Historic sod-roofed stone hut at top of Beech Hill

Follow sparrow song
through fields of sunlit lilies
all the way to sky.

July 5: Found poem

Like Proust's madeleine, sometimes unexpected, extremely prosaic things will trigger a flood of poetic thoughts and reveries. Today I was validating our CCR registration, a mind-numbingly bureaucratic process on the computer. (Don't ask me what CCR stands for; our government loves acronyms! It has something to do with making sure the land trust I work for is properly registered in the right system to receive government grants.) Where's the poetry in that? The last step of registering myself as a user for our account was to set up a series of five security questions, questions such as...

What was your childhood nickname?
What is the name of your favorite childhood friend?
What street did you live on in third grade?
What was the name of your first stuffed animal?
What was the last name of your third grade teacher?
What is the street number of the house you grew up in?
What was your high school mascot?
On what street did your best friend in high school live?
As a child, what did you want to be when you grew up?
What is your favorite fruit?
What is your favorite fragrance?
What time of day were you born?

When I came back to the present from my little trip down memory lane, I found myself wondering if the office worker tasked with making up these questions enjoyed coming up with them as much as I did trying to answer (all of) them (in my head).

Even government
red tape can have the power
to inspire poems.  

(And here's something perhaps even more prosaic: I wrote this blog entry while downloading Adobe Dreamweaver CS6 onto my computer. Who says we can't fit poetry into our mundane and busy lives?)

October 26: Another Eagle

Pulling into the office parking lot this morning, I stopped quick. Across the lot, at the top of a tree, was a large, dark lump. Was it a vulture? A hawk? I wished I had binoculars. But then it turned its head, the light caught on white feathers: bald eagle!

I slowly pulled into the lot, hoping that I wouldn't startle the big bird from its perch. I was able to park, open my window, and get my camera from the back seat. For over five minutes I snapped away while the eagle hung out, observing the river, preening its back feathers, looking around. Eventually I had to get to work, but the bird barely seemed to notice as I opened the car door and got out. I was able to get a few more photos before it decided to move on, slowly flapping those huge wings over to the other side of the river and disappearing into the trees. I took a deep breath full of gratitude and headed in to the office. How many people get to start their work day like that? (And most days, I even like my job too!)

Eagle hanging out.
I sit here staring, smiling,
beneath its notice.

July 12: Celebration

I walked home from work exultant this afternoon, having landed a big grant for an important land conservation project on Ragged Mountain. Not only did my grant make the cut in a highly competitive funding round, but we got the full amount we asked for, which doesn't often happen these days. My hard work had paid off in a most satisfying way, giving the project a big boost.

So in an uplifted mood I strolled the short, wildflower-lined stretch of road along the river to my house. And in an uplifted mood I heard the piercing cry of an osprey. I looked up and there it was, soaring in lazy circles way above Mount Battie, chirping loudly. I felt attuned to its mood; I think it was calling out into the hazy summer sky simply for the sheer thrill of being a bird in flight. A big bird with strong wings and a beautiful, fish-filled bay stretching out below.

High as the osprey
wheeling above Mount Battie,
I want to shout too.

September 9: Titmouse Moment

Although I definitely play fast and loose with haiku as a form in my daily postings, their traditional role is to capture a moment. Amid a stressful day of challenging work, aggravating tasks, a frustrating meeting, and an ever-growing to-do list, there was one moment that made me pause and smile: while I was eating my lunch (at my desk), a titmouse landed on my window feeder, looked in with his beady black eyes, "dee dee'ed" really loudly, grabbed a seed, and flew off. I love those cheeky little birds. So the take-away message: if you have a job that raises your blood pressure, think about putting up a few feeders. Taking a little time to focus on the birds each day really helps. Sometimes those moments are the only thing about my work day that seems to hold any poetry whatsoever.

Thanks to a titmouse,
for a few moments my thoughts
left my desk, took wing.

Those who enjoy poetry and titmice might get a kick out of former US Poet Laureate Billy Collins' poem "Influence," in which he compares poet Marianne Moore to a titmouse (and Robert Penn Warren to a mourning dove). The first time I read it I was in tears. Read it and you'll understand. I think.