March 26: Waking to Snow

Last night I slept fitfully. Between the raging elements--wind and a pounding rain--and strange dreams culminating in a headache, I awoke rather bleary-eyed. But when I pulled up the bedroom blind, I was surprised to see both sunlight and snow. The sun lit the foam on the brimming river and the lacy frosting of snow on the back lawn. Quite pretty, really. Even though this was just a dusting, it's been so long since it snowed that I felt an excitement like when you awaken to the first snow in late fall.

Later, I checked on my irises, tulips, and chives that had begun to send up tender green spears into the spring air. Everything looks alive and hardy. Even the rhododendron, despite clenching its leaves tightly in the cold, still boasts healthy-looking buds. As I watch out the back window now, the sunlight has reached portions of the yard and melted the strands of snow which had so neatly coated the grass combed with the rake last weekend. The remaining furrows and ridges of snow ripple in the light, echoing the white water on the river. March isn't over, so I doubt this will be the last snow of the season. But its ephemeral beauty reminds us that winter has definitely loosened its grip, is letting go...

Patterns of white foam
lace the river, snowy lawn--
early spring motif.

March 25: Window

I left work late tonight feeling brain-weary. Driving through the deep blue twilight, heading not home but into town to complete one final errand, my eyes were caught by the comforting sight of a yellow-lit window glowing in a little house tucked against the dark bulk of Mount Battie. That illuminated square promised warmth and rest. For a moment, I wished that were my home. For some reason, no other window on that street offered quite the same welcoming glow. My emotions had been manipulated by a sort of living Thomas Kincaide scene. Sometimes it's OK to give in to that kind of thing.

Twilit, chilly night.
How comforting the window's
glowing yellow square.

March 24: Sparrow in the Snow

This afternoon as the rain briefly turned to snow outside my office, the local song sparrow took shelter in my little window bird feeder. He (I think it's the male that's been singing at the edge of the office lawn) occasionally ate some sunflower seed, but mostly just sat there looking a bit dazed. Probably wondering why he'd made such an effort to get here this early, with snow still falling. Even as I moved around my office, he stayed there on the edge of the feeder, watching with his bright little eyes as snowflakes lazily drifted past. Eventually someone came into my office, causing the sparrow to fly down into a bush, but he returned later for another long stint. While I worked at my computer, it was comforting in a way to look up and see the bird there, bill stuffed with seed. But I also couldn't help but worry about him, hoping he'll find enough food and good shelter to get him through the cold snap we're supposed to get this weekend. Granted, this chilly wet weather is more typical of late March in Maine. And some song sparrows even winter over. They're tough little birds. But until the warm weather is here to stay, I know I'll feel a small sense of relief each day that I continue to see him.

Early spring sparrow,
what goes through your little brain
as rain turns to snow?

March 23: Stop Sign

At the end of Mill Street where it intersects with Mount Battie Street, someone has added words onto the stop sign so it looks like this:

STOP

AND REFLECT

If it weren't pouring rain and dark right now, I'd go take a picture of this sign to show you. I have a penchant for signs and what they can convey about a place. My favorite artsy project last year was to put together a photo book documenting Monhegan Island through its signs. I particularly enjoy it when people are creative with existing signs, as with my neighborhood's stop sign. And in fact, when I am stopped there, I do take an extra moment before continuing on my way. I'm often paused in front of this sign as I'm hurrying back to the office, so its message conveys a lesson that can be eerily appropriate for my current mood. 

Another stop sign in town that has been creatively embellished stands over at the Simonton's Corner intersection. It reads:

DON'T

STOP

DANCING

Two buildings away from this sign is an old community hall where contra dances are often held. When I'm stopped at this sign, it never fails to make me smile as I imagine someone sneaking over to it after a wild night of dancing and commemorating the evening in this wonderful way. 

Stop sign gives me pause.

Don't just sit there, it says. Think.

Be in the moment.

  

March 22: Woodpecker

As I logged on to write my post for this afternoon, knowing I wanted to write about the pileated woodpecker I saw this morning, I had to laugh--two other bird blogs that I follow had also posted something about pileated woodpeckers: the Stokes Birding Blog (though mostly about the ivory-billed) and   the Mass. Breeding Bird Atlas blog. For the record, I did not, however, laugh like Woody Woodpecker (who is, by all appearances, a pileated woodpecker), although my mother has been known to do a mean imitation of the cartoon character.

I was greeted by that crazy laughter (from the real bird, not my mother or Woody) this morning as I walked into the office. Pileated woodpeckers are particularly vocal this time of year as they noisily establish their territorial dominance and their need for a good woman by both calling and loudly drumming on whatever will make the most noise. Spring is in their veins. They have large territories, and their drumming can resonate over a mile; I'm sure the pair that hangs out here at the office is the same one I see in my own yard at the other end of the street.

After hearing his wild cackling off and on for the past few weeks, I finally got to see the male this morning thanks to an alert co-worker whose window faces the woods. He called us in and we all watched the big ol' woodpecker flap into the woods. Those flashy white wing patches and bright red crest and facial splash make him stand out among the bare trunks. He is our largest woodpecker, after all. A bird like that doesn't exactly keep a low profile.

Interesting side notes: The pileated's pointy "cap" is actually the source of its odd name: it means "having a crest." And for those who care about such things, you can pronounce it PILL-e-ated or PILE-e-ated.

A few summers ago, this female was so intent on eating grubs from this rotten stump outside the Land Trust office that she paid no attention to my presence.

Red-crowned and laughing--
raucous king of the forest,
I think she hears you!

March 21: Air Space

My friend Brian and I stopped by Weskeag Marsh this afternoon to see what birds might have arrived. When we first got there, a big flock of crows seemed to be chasing something. They weren't making too much of a ruckus, so they must have successfully driven off whatever they'd ganged up against. Among the mallards, black ducks, and many little green-winged teals, we picked out a great blue heron. Several vociferous killdeer made their presence known throughout the marsh. Another great blue heron flew in. A song sparrow chipped from the bushes. The sun brightened, making it difficult to look westward out over the pannes.

Then Brian spotted an adult bald eagle soaring in over the trees. We hoped it would flush the ducks, so we could get a good count on the waterfowl lurking unseen at the back of the marsh. But instead of hunting, the eagle simply perched on a pine bough. I thought the crows, who were still loitering like a bunch of delinquents, might decide to mob the bird, but apparently they couldn't be bothered. So we kind of forgot about the eagle until a few minutes later we noticed two red-tailed hawks aggressively chasing it away. They followed the eagle as it soared higher and higher above the trees, diving on the larger bird quite closely at times. Fellow birder Don Reimer, who visits the marsh almost daily, wondered aloud if this was the same pair of red-tails that had nested near the marsh last year. By the way they were acting, I'd say so. They flanked that eagle like two fighter jets, escorting it out of their air space.

Driving away about ten minutes later, we saw one of the hawks perched above a nearby field. When I pulled over so Brian could try to photograph it, it took flight over the pannes, its red tail shining in the afternoon sun.

Red tails a warning,
two hawks escort an eagle
out of their air space.

March 20: Spring Equinox

Spring is officially here at last! I celebrated the Vernal Equinox by spending the whole of this amazingly warm day outside raking my lawn. In shorts and a t-shirt at that. Now I think I'm going to spend what's left of my day on the couch popping ibuprofen. Raking is a full body activity, and after five straight hours of it, my whole body's in pain. But it's a good pain, the soreness of muscles from doing something vigorous and strenuous outdoors. And such satisfying work--I can see my actual lawn again after months of looking out on a carpet of dead leaves and dirty snow. The dried grass, while not much more attractive, at least looks well-combed now. Tulips and daffodils I had forgotten were out there have been revealed, their green shoots now exposed to sun. The sword tips of iris leaves emerge, and the baby chives would probably already taste good in a salad. My quince, lilac, and rhododendron bushes all appear to have survived the winter well; leaf buds are beginning to swell along their branches. Ah, the joy of fresh greenery.

While I worked, I felt like I had emerged from hibernation and was once again part of my neighborhood. My next-door neighbors kindly lent me their wheelbarrow for the day while they rototilled their garden. The kids across the street rode their bikes up and down the sidewalk, talked about swimming in the river (ice-out on Megunticook Lake was officially declared yesterday), and then spent a few hours loudly playing in their back yard. So reassuring to see children spending their days outside doing things. I periodically paused to chat with neighbors walking or driving by. A day like this puts everyone in good spirits, as we all luxuriate in the warm spring air.

The song sparrow that arrived back yesterday flitted about the backyard. Blue jays jeered. Titmice and cardinals sang distant love songs. A nuthatch called briefly. Crows cawed in response to a barking dog. All was as it should be on the first day of spring. The annual process of renewal has truly begun, and no matter what weather we get in the next month or so--it could still snow--there's no stopping it now.

Vernal equinox--
daylight has caught up with night,
green world stirs to life.

May 19: Young Moon

The sky was wide and clear over open fields tonight as we left our friends' house in Lincolnville. Directly overhead, red Mars shone. Leo the Lion crouched below Mars, ready to pounce. The Big Dipper has tipped sideways now, about to spill its ethereal contents northward. To the east, bright Sirius has risen above Hatchet Mountain, Orion even higher. And to the northeast, above the house but below the smudge of the Pleaides, the waxing crescent Moon. A thin sliver of a moon, barely born. And within the embrace of the horns of the Moon, the shadowy visage of the rest of the Moon was visible, the old Moon in the new Moon's arms.

Although I've seen this phenomenon often, I've never really thought about what caused it. It turns out we can see the entire Moon because sunlight reflecting off the Earth--earthshine--casts enough light to make it so. But the scientific explanation seems much less romantic than the image of the old and new Moons embracing to become one.

We drove down the long driveway with the window open, hoping to hear a woodcock or an owl. We didn't hear a thing, but the stars--the billions and billions of stars--were everywhere.

Waxing crescent Moon
holds the old Moon in her arms.
We all seek wholeness.

March 18: Field o' Robins

Driving to Rockland this morning I passed a field full of robins. This was the very field on Meadow Rd. above which I spotted my first-of-year vulture not so long ago, so maybe I should just camp out there in my quest for signs of spring. This morning it was robins, the first I've seen in the past month or so that I feel certain are "inbound" birds, not lingering, wintering birds from Canada. As they migrate north, these spring robins can be seen in great numbers spread out across farm fields, probing the recently thawed soil for worms and other goodies. Each one seems to have its own patch, just a few feet from another robin. The blacker-looking birds with brighter red breasts are the males; the females look slightly faded alongside. Today's group seemed to be a mixed-gender flock. It won't be long now before I hear the robin's rollicking "cheery-up, cheery-o" song in my yard right about this time of day, as the sun sets behind the treeline. In my neighborhood, they're usually the first bird I hear when I awake and the last I hear before dark.

Muddy, untilled field--
to the migrating robins,
a moist chocolate cake.

March 17: Bird Poker

The one bonus of daylight savings time: last night there was enough light after I left work that I could run outside instead of having to go to the gym. It truly felt like spring, and my steps were lighter for it. House finches and cardinals sang as I ran down my street, doves flushed from the roadside, and a pair of geese glided together up the river. There's a section of Route 105 where fields open to the river and a wide vista of the Tablelands and Mount Megunticook. I was just about there when I happened to look up, and I almost stopped in my tracks. Above me swirled a kettle of many vultures. I tried to count them while not straying into the ditch or the path of an oncoming car. Twenty-one! Previously I had only seen four at once. Now they seemed to be back in force.

A little further on, I looked up again. The birds were more spread out this time, lower, just above the treeline, perhaps heading in to roost on Bald Mountain. It was, after all, almost 6:00 p.m. They were easier to count, and I again tallied twenty-one big black birds soaring westward. Twenty-one vultures. Blackjack! All black cards, too. Amusing myself with this poker metaphor, I ran on. I often run with a song in my head to help keep my pace up. What came to mind then was Sting's "Shape of My Heart": "I know that the spades are the swords of a soldier. I know that the clubs are weapons of war. I know that diamonds mean money for this art, but that's not the shape of my heart..." A lovely song. A good song for soaring raptors.

Farther along 105 as it comes close to the river, I got my jackpot. I just happened to look up and see a very large bird fly over my head. At first I thought it was one of those vultures, it was so big. But when I could see its plumage patterns, I realized it was a hawk. A big hawk. But not a red-tail. Because it flapped those big wings a few times, then glided, then flapped a few more times with slow strength, then glided across the river and into the pines. Distinctive flight pattern of an accipiter. According to Hawks in Flight by Peter Dunne, David Sibley, and Clay Sutton, "Rule of thumb: any bird that is first identified as a buteo and turns out to be an accipiter may safely be called a Goshawk." (Italics theirs.) But before I even got home and read that sentence, I already knew I had seen a goshawk. Some things you just know. I also knew that I'd been dealt a very lucky hand that day.

Twenty-one vultures:
winning handful of black cards.
My jackpot: goshawk!

March 16: Coltsfoot

Each day brings a new hint of spring. Today at work as we were engaged in our annual stint of yard work, we came across a couple of coltsfeet blooming under the pine tree out front. Coltsfoot is usually one of the earliest wildflowers to bloom, and it seems to like the lawn of the Land Trust office--especially a moist swath down by the river that at its peak almost glows with a conglomeration of coltsfoot constellations. It was a refreshing reward for our labors to come across the bright yellow faces of this little flower, which is often mistaken for a dandelion. It gets its name from its hoofprint-shaped leaves, which haven't even sprouted yet. No green here, just the flower heads atop their scruffy stalks poking up out of last year's dead grass and weeds. Coltsfoot's genus name Tussilago means "cough supressant," and herbal pharmacies sell extracts of coltsfoot to help cure lung problems. But right now, the thumbnail-sized blossoms amid the pine needles--in addition to the bright sun we've enjoyed all day--are working for me as mood enhancers.

This year's flowers might be a little earlier than usual. I took this photo at my office on 14 April 2005.

Small suns amid weeds--

early flowers make us smile.

Reward for raking.