January 8: Treadmill

I try to run three days a week. Unless one of my running days is on a weekend, this activity takes place after work. I am not a morning person. Getting up early enough to run before work would probably render me incapable of actually doing my job. So I run after work, which spring through fall is something I look forward to. In spring and early summer, I keep track of the birds I hear singing along my running route and listen for the peepers and wood frogs as I pass a little marsh. Depending on how late I get started, I might enjoy the last rays of sun hitting the Megunticook ridgeline as I hit the stretch along the river. On one street, there's a pair of golden retrievers, one young and one old, that always run to the edge of their lawn and bark at me, tails wagging, as retrievers are wont to do. In fall, I appreciate the glorious foliage and crisp air that's a little easier on the lungs. One big lawn by the river hosts a lingering flock of geese that always raise their heads as I pant past. But by late fall, it gets too dark to run outside after work. So I'm relegated to the track and treadmill at the Y until the days lengthen again.

Tonight I ran on the treadmill. Rather than wind in the leaves and birdsong, ESPN and music from my iPod accompanied my exercise. Other people sweated and struggled all around me. After dark the big windows that face the woods behind the Y are invisible behind the reflection of the exercise room. So I tried to focus on Sports Center, thankfully close captioned, so the miles would seem to go by faster. I don't mind the experience. I usually see people I know, so there's the fun social aspect, and I'm usually out of there in an hour. But I can't help but long for my usual running route, even the steep uphills and the barking dogs. Indoor exercise, especially under fluorescent lighting, just seems kind of unnatural.

Snow, darkness. Inside:
treadmill rolls under my feet
In my head: trees, birds.

PS: Seems like the whole country is experiencing the chill of winter right now, even the deep South. My friend Pat Palmer recently arrived in Naples, Florida, and is not happy with the fact that the temperatures aren't much higher there than back home in Massachusetts. Here is the haiku she shared with me today:

One lone merganser
floating on the frigid pond.
Bet his bottom's cold!

January 7: Alpenglow

Stuck in an office most of my day, I sometimes get frustrated about not being able to get outside and chase a bird or two. The irony is that the goal of my work is the conservation of the special wild places that I would like to be out enjoying. I can't really complain, as I certainly do get my chances to spend time on Coastal Mountains Land Trust's preserves, as well as the nearby trails in Camden Hills State Park and beyond. This time of year, however, I'm feeling particularly desk-bound. And thus very thankful that our office is at least situated with a view of the Megunticook River (and the dramatic "falls" at the Seabright Dam) and Mount Battie.

This afternoon on a trek from my desk to the printer, I happened to look out the east-facing window toward the river and the mountain. I was kind of hoping to see that red-tailed hawk again. No hawk, but I was stopped in my tracks. The snowy summit of Mount Battie shone rosy purple with the sun's last rays, transformed by true alpenglow into something almost magical. Enjoying the rich light of the day's last golden moments, I felt instantly grateful to live and work in the company of a mountain (albeit a rather small one).

Over New Year's weekend, my husband and I watched for the thousandth time the "Lord of the Rings" movie trilogy. The warm glow of the mountaintop made me think of places where elves lived in Middle Earth. How many people have the opportunity to travel from typing a report at their desk to admiring a Middle Earth vista in just a few steps?

A place for magic:
golden glow of sun's last rays
lights up mountain snow.

January 6: Wishing to See an Owl

Driving home from an evening meeting tonight, it occurred to me that the old farm fields along Simonton Road would be an ideal place to see an owl. I see turkeys there sometimes. And those fields are probably full of rodents tunneling around under the snow and grass. Some big old oaks stand on the open hills like sentinels, perfect strategic perches for a bird of prey. So why not an owl? 

I wished and wished for an owl to swoop across the road within range of my headlights. Of course, the cool thing about wild animals is that they don't do what you want. They live on their own schedule. Unless of course you're Aquaman, able to summon the creatures of the sea through mental telepathy. (Which I tried to do once as a kid. I spent a whole day on my grandparents' beach staring at the waves trying to summon a dolphin, concluded that I definitely do not have super powers.)

Not seeing an owl despite thinking really hard about seeing one made me realize that really it's all a matter of perception. Which got me thinking about the last stanza of Wallace Stevens' amazing and mind-twisting poem "The Snow Man" (1921):

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
and, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

So here's a poem of what might have been:

To see what you seek--

nexus of want and desire

manifests as owl. 

January 5: Red-tailed Hawk

I woke up cranky this morning for no real reason. Just one of those mornings when I couldn't fully wake up. An early meeting didn't lift my spirits much, though my co-workers were as entertaining as ever. And later, I was sitting in my director's office discussing budget items for our next fiscal year--also not helping my mood--when suddenly a hawk flew past. A red-tail, dark chest and wing markings and red tail all fully visible, splashes of color in the grey and white landscape. The big bird flapped down the river to land in a bare oak across the water from the office. With binoculars we each enjoyed brief but perfect views of this beautiful raptor as it paused on its journey. And when it lifted off to soar back upriver, my mood rose with it.

Hawk visitation:
red-tail cruising the river.
My spirits take wing.

Added bonus: red-tailed hawk became species #10 on my list of first birds seen in 2010.

January 4: Snowy Peaks

It's amazing how lofty and remote the familiar Camden Hills can become with the addition of a few inches of snow. Although Mount Megunticook is the third highest peak on the Atlantic seaboard, that's not saying much. It's just over 1,300 feet in elevation, behind Cadillac and another Acadia mountain, and just ahead of Ragged and Bald, also in the Camden Hills. Most of the Atlantic coast is just that: coast. As in, sea level. Camden isn't called "where the mountains meet the sea" for nothing--most of the coast doesn't have such a lucky and scenic conjunction of geography.

But after the past weekend's storm, the snow-covered Megunticook ridgeline looks positively alpine. Perhaps it's because the frosting of snow accentuates the craggy appearance of the mountain's open, rocky ledges and spiky summit evergreens. Or perhaps it's that the old landslide scar from several decades ago is highlighted by the whiteness, looking now like a fresh avalanche chute. Whatever the reason, when the sun hit the ridge this afternoon, I caught my breath. There was a mountain! Remote, inaccessible, lofty... and beautiful.

Snow-covered ridgeline--
is that really where we walked
in last summer's heat?

January 3: Sunday Afternoon Moment

It's a wonderful thing when you can take a look around you and say, "In this moment right now, I'm happy."

Here's my moment: I'm watching the Patriots game while I eat my lunch of pretzel crisps, Brie, and really good fig spread with almonds and apricots.

What makes this moment such a good one? Well, set-up is part of the equation. Paul and I shoveled a lot of snow this morning. (And I added bird species #6-9 to my First Birds of the Year list.) Then we ran some errands. Now, the groceries are put away, a pretty, new orchid sits in my window, there's nothing left on my "to do" list, and I'm free to watch the game--alone, which means I can also blast the heat and yell at the screen. It's the last game of the regular season, but they've already clinched the AFC East title, so nothing rests on a victory here. My moment is that perfect point in time between a satisfactory past--lots of sleep and the completion of all I'd planned for this three-day weekend (taking down Christmas, massive cleaning)--and a positive future--the unusual luxury of several hours ahead of me for which I have nothing planned.

Also, though a wet snow still spits out the window, the big storm is mostly over. So no more anxiety about possibly losing power in a blizzard. And hopefully no worries about having to wake up early tomorrow to shovel out my car so I can get to work on time.

A high moment for me often involves food, as well--either a special or favorite food, or a meal joyously shared with family or friends. My unusual Brie and pretzel combo is a weekend lunch favorite. And sports is another important factor. I unapologetically love watching sports, be it Patriots football, Red Sox baseball, the Kentucky Derby, a Federer-Nadal finals match in the French Open, or the Winter Olympics. So for an indoors moment, this one contains all the elements for happiness. (Outdoors moments almost always involve birding...) I'm content as my cat now snoring away in her laundry room cubby. And grateful for it.

Brie and pretzel lunch,
Sunday afternoon football--
all's good in my world.

January 2: Goldfinches in the Snow

Not quite as exciting as gorillas in the mist, but amid today's flurry of fast-falling flakes, bird species #5 of 2010 appeared at my kitchen window feeders: American goldfinch! The bird to the right daintily plucked thistle seeds from the thistle bag and neatly dropped the tiny husks onto the snow behind it for at least ten minutes as I stood there and watched. Others hunkered down in the relative shelter of the black sunflower feeder, eating the larger seeds in a sloppier manner, the seed shells comically dangling off their bills.

I stalked them from inside this morning partly to see if I could actually get a decent photo through the window and partly for some snow day entertainment. I should get out and do something stimulating like snowshoe through the neighborhood, but instead I've been luxuriating in the warmth and shelter of my home. Still in my pajamas, I've baked a batch of popovers, completed a NYT crossword puzzle, and now I've recorded the first birds at my feeder in the new year. That the window feeder has accumulated a thin layer of snow didn't stop three goldfinches from trying to cram in there all at once at one point. And occasionally, to my delight, the birds' sweet, querulous calls would rise above the dull roar of the dishwasher and stove fan.

Goldfinches in summer plumage are bright yellow with black wings and pink bills. The males, who are more brilliantly colored overall, sport jaunty black forehead caps, as well. This time of year the birds are hardly recognizable as the same species. But I find their subtle coloring to be more beautiful in its way: the soft buffy brown of the head and back contrasts gently with the grey nape and breast and patches of bright yellow around the throat. One of today's visitors has a distinctive yellow patch on its shoulder, a sort of epaulette carried over from sunnier days. In this photo, the snow-covered mound of my husband's car and a frosted fence provide the perfect backdrop against which to study the finches' winter plumage:

The bird on the left is duller than the one on the right, with paler yellow highlights, though its wings are blacker. Each bird is slightly different, a thing of wonder in itself that could be studied for hours. Especially now, when I can't help but marvel that such tiny bits of life are carrying on amid the wind and snow of this storm.

Blizzard on its way,

but now, finch at the feeder.

Eat up, tiny bird!

January 1, 2010: First Birds

On the first day of the near year, I like to make a personal game out of listing the first 10 bird species I see. So far, here's my list: 1. Crow.

Granted, I slept in, and a wet heavy snow has been falling since yesterday. But after asking my friends on Facebook what they've seen today, the range of responses has made me a bit envious. A friend in the deep South saw a black vulture. My father in Delaware saw snow geese while out on a walk. A friend in Hope saw a deer under her apple tree. My neighbor saw her chickens (hey, a bird's a bird!) Others have seen woodpeckers, chickadees, doves, and titmice at their feeders. Where are my chickadees? Where are the ducks? I think I'm going to have to actually venture outside my cozy house  to really see what's out there.

As if to confirm this, a crow just flew into the yard, cawing energetically. It landed on a branch right outside my window in a poof of snow, cawed in my direction a few times as if to say, Get out here now!, and flew back across the yard to join its friends who are all now making a racket somewhere down river.

First bird of the year:
black crow flies past snowy trees,
yin-yang made alive.

Update: I went out to run some errands and stopped off to scan Camden Harbor. Now it's near dark, and my list has not expanded by much. Hopefully this isn't prescient of my birding luck for the year ahead, though presumably I will be making a much greater effort on future occasions.

2. Mallard
3. Black duck
4. Herring gull

No other identifiable birds--not even a chickadee, which was last year's first bird. Except a lot more crows, as if they want to be sure I know they are the Bird of the Day. Or maybe Bird of the Year!

December 31: Blue Moon

All morning at my desk I've been singing "Blue Moon" to myself... (I also played Nanci Griffith singing "Once in a Very Blue Moon" for variety.) I think I'm actually more excited that today marks the blue moon--the second full moon in a month--than I am for the turn of the year. After all, a blue moon only comes around... well, you know the saying...

Apparently the commonly accepted definition of a blue moon is not its original one, which was based on the concept that every season has 3 full moons, and if there happened to be an "extra" moon during that quarter of the year, the third one was called a "blue moon" to keep the moons and seasons in correspondence. The old definition offers a nice link to our agrarian roots, when we actually paid close attention to solar and lunar cycles and the seasons. But the current definition makes it a little easier for everyone to understand what's going on and celebrate in their own way.

An unabashed moon worshipper, I paid homage to this special full moon when I awoke in the middle of last night to see her bright white face shining through the window. Knowing of the pending storm, I figured I probably wouldn't see much of the moon tonight. And the clouds are in fact already moving in. To celebrate New Year's Eve, my husband and I will share an omakase assortment at Suzuki's Sushi Bar, and I'll enjoy some sake, rice wine traditionally served in little stoneware cups. The story goes that the great Chinese poet Li Po drowned because he tried to embrace the full moon's reflection while drunk on sake. Because it's probably not true, I can appreciate the tragic beauty of that legend, which has forever entwined the moon, poetry, and sake in my mind.

Maybe the restaurant will even offer Midnight Moon sake, to perfectly commemorate the moment.

Blue moon celebrates
turn of year, a new decade--
raise high the wine cup!

December 30: White

I think of the color white now not because of snow or the almost full moon, but because in the past few days, Maine birders have posted on the Maine Birding List-serv photos of two different white birds. These birds are leucistic, not albino. Put simply, leucism is caused by developmentally defective pigment cells, while albinism is caused by a genetic lack of melanin. The main visible differences are that a leucistic animal doesn't have the albino's red eyes and may not be pure white. I've seen a song sparrow with a white face and a crow with some white tail feathers, for instance. But these photos depicted birds that were, if not as pure white as driven snow, almost entirely white.

The first bird is a junco that has been coming to a feeder in Freedom for most of December. Normally, a junco is an overall slate-grey bird with a white belly. This junco, photographed on a very snowy feeder against snow-covered bushes, is strikingly white, with only a thin dark edge to its wings, dark eyes, and a junco's typical pink legs and bill. This beautiful bird looks as if it's been crafted from the surrounding drifts and brought to life--Frosty the Snowbird. I wonder if it's aware how well it blends in with the snow, if it has learned how to make itself invisible.

This morning a birder in southern Maine posted a photo of a leucistic red-tailed hawk that has apparently been regularly seen in Eliot for the past four years in the neighborhood of the Marshwood Middle School. The photographer has seen the bird with his non-white mate. (With most hawks, the females are larger, hence the assumption that the smaller, white bird is male. Apparently his freakish color didn't render him unattractive to at least one other of his kind.)  The photo shows a white hawk flying against a background of bare trees. Except for his dark eye and bill, the hawk truly looks like a ghost bird, or the surreal visitation of some forest angel.

Two unusual white birds during these snowy days of winter, two pale muses:

White bird in winter--
blank as the snow-covered field
and as beautiful.

December 29: Wind Advisory

Current weather topics: today's roaring wind, and the big storm predicted for New Year's Day. I haven't been able to find out much about Friday's storm--and since I've got no travel plans for that day, that's alright. But I do know from first-hand experience that today's wind is brutal.

Weather Underground tells me there's a "Wind Advisory until 7 PM EST this evening," and warns of downed branches and power lines, and "dangerous driving conditions over open areas... especially for high profile vehicles." Guess I won't be driving my double-decker bus home tonight. My ears tell me there's a giant roaring monster outside that would like to wrap the building in trees and fling it into the ocean. And the last time I ventured out the door, my skin agreed with the report of Northwest winds gusting from 20 to 40 MPH. Wind chill's dropped an already bone-chilling 10 degrees to about 5 below.

Some people delight in high winds, in feeling nature's power moving through the world, the dynamic, kinetic energy our planet generates without any help from humans. That's cool in concept, but really, strong winds just make me very anxious. I can hear things blowing around outside, thumping against the house. Before darkness fell, I could see mature trees rocking in the storm as if they were stalks of grass on a windswept plain. The windows rattle. Lines from King Lear come to mind: "Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! Blow!" Not a happy play, and Lear himself doesn't fare well out in the elements, if I recall.

When I was a kid we lived for several months in a farmhouse with a three-story barn that was just outside my bedroom window. The open barn door was like a giant dark maw that howled with a fierce wind every night while I lay awake, afraid of what was out there. Perhaps that childish fear is with me still as I sit at my desk, shivering despite the heat, cringing as each gust accelerates, gains power, and crashes through the trees and down the street like an invisible tsunami.

Winds from Canada--
thundering caribou herds
sweeping the tundra.