April 6: A Spot of Color

As I pulled out of the driveway this morning, giving my front lawn one last look, I was delighted to see two unexpected spots of color amid the inchoate sprigs and twigs of what will one day be a lush flower garden again. On the right side of the lawn, a single little daffodil added a cheery touch of yellow. Among the perennials on the left, a primrose once again surprised me not only by surviving the winter but by blooming before anything else had barely pushed forth incipient leaves. Not bad for a plant that I bought at Hannaford on a whim a few years ago. The tiny hot pink blossom was a button of color against the bare earth of the raked bed. Once the other plants leaf out, the primrose will be hidden, so it's taking advantage of its time to shine. It was certainly appreciated this morning as I paused on my way to work, roused from my usual early morning daze.

Not a host, but one
golden daffodil, primrose.
Ah, longed for color!

April 5: Another Season Begins

Hallowed rite of spring:
crack of ball on bat; third out--
Red Sox beat Yankees!

Last night a new baseball season began, complete with a lot of pageantry, a deep-seated rivalry, and a satisfying come-from-behind win: Red Sox versus Yankees on opening night at Fenway. Both teams received the courtesy of a full introduction, from the bat boys and massage therapists on up to the starting pitchers (Beckett, Sabathia). Old Johnny Pesky made an appearance, Lowell got a standing ovation (as a back-up player), a smiling Pedro threw the first pitch, Neil Diamond came out to sing "Sweet Caroline" in person in the 8th inning, and the Sox won 9-7 despite being down 5-1 at one point. Of course, it all meant staying up till midnight, because Red Sox-Yankees games always run at least four hours. And it all came back in those four hours--the thrill of this placid but nerve-wracking sport: watching your favorite players make good plays, a 7-pitch 1-2-3 inning, the solid thwack of a well-hit ball, an unexpected homer, the ethereal green field under the lights, the crowd chanting "Yankees suck!" and the anticipation as Papelbon pitches for the final out of the ninth... We were all yawning in the office today, but also smiling.

April 4: Easter Sun

As I type, the sun is just dipping below the treeline across the river. Thank you, Sun, for such a lovely holiday! The last rays diffuse through branches, and now I'm seeing spots from trying to maintain eye contact with the blinding orb.

After a lovely Easter brunch with my parents at the Hartstone Inn this morning, my husband and I decided to burn off our strawberry crepes with creme Anglaise, lobster and asparagus quiche, and coconut cake by hiking up Beech Hill. Even with the inevitable breeze at the top, the air still felt like summer. A strange summer, however, with the fields still dry and dead-looking and no leaves on the trees. And still very few birds. All we saw from where we stood were the local pair of ravens, some vultures heading southward, and the ethereal pale shape of a "grey ghost"--a male harrier soaring low over the fields in search of lunch. Curiously, no other hawks, though I'm sure today was another good day for raptor migration. Returning to our car, we saw our first local phoebe silently wagging its tail in a nearby tree. And several local teenagers in short-shorts, tank tops, and flip flops--who could blame them for wanting to pretend summer had arrived, expose that sun-starved flesh?

With our friend Brian, we soaked up some more rays and watched a few more birds at Weskeag Marsh: blue-winged teals and other ducks, an eagle, a great egret trailing lacy breeding plumage, several hysterical-sounding killdeer. The glare on the salt pannes made it difficult to see well. But hard to complain, when sunlight has been so hard to come by.

Finally, at home on a Sunday afternoon, the day of rest, I got my folding chair out of the shed for the first time since last fall and sat on the back porch reading a book until the sun began to hit the treeline. The rushing music of the river muted all other neighborhood sounds except a squirrel scolding from the yard, and I indulged in an hour or so of rare and luxurious relaxation of my favorite kind. And bug-free at that. Good night, Sun.

Real peace is simple:
good Norwegian mystery,*
a patch of sunlight.

*I'm reading Jo Nesbo's The Redbreast. Nesbo is supposed to be Norway's version of Sweden's Henning Mankell, whose noir mystery thrillers I highly recommend to those who enjoy the genre.

April 3: Ice Cream and Frogs

We were in the Freeport area today, so we checked out the hawk watch for a few hours at Bradbury Mountain State Park in Pownal. On the short hike up, brown creepers, juncos, and phoebes sang. From the summit we--along with about ten other birders--watched kestrels zip past overhead, red tails shining in the sun. Sharp-shinned hawks flapped and glided in circles around us. In the distance, red-tailed hawks, an eagle, ospreys, turkey vultures, and a goshawk were picked out one by one by the official observers (and eventually us), each bird recognized by its silhouette and flight pattern. A pileated woodpecker called in the forest below us. Tree swallows darted past, the first I'd seen this year. A golden-crowned kinglet hopped in the branches of a nearby tree, crown flared. It was the kind of birding experience that gets my heart racing, and I had all intentions of writing a poem about it. However, as exciting as it was to see those raptors soaring by on their primeval quest to get north, and to see and/or hear other first-of-year birds, different signs of spring gave me today's "haiku moment."

First cone at Round Top:
two scoops with jimmies. Later,
first peeper chorus!

Friend and fellow poet Carl Little has a great spring poem called "Zones of Peeper," about driving around this time of year with the car window cracked open, passing through literal zones of frog song as you go past each vernal pool or wetland. For a moment, the sound pours over you, your heart thrills to it, and then it's gone. We only passed through one zone this evening, but the first one of the season is always the most exciting. Especially if you do so while finishing off an excellent almond joy and Indian pudding ice cream cone.

April 2: Fog Bank

As I drove from Camden to a meeting in Rockport, this morning seemed idyllic: warming air, birds singing, clear blue skies, that hopeful gleam of spring... But as I passed Hoboken Gardens on Route One, suddenly a giant cloud monster of a fog bank rose before me. The sun was working hard to dissipate it one strand at a time, but as I drove farther south, the light was blocked and fog surrounded me on all sides. Calling it a fog "bank" makes it sound like a solid object, but beyond its sheer bulk, this wall of cloud was moving eastward fast and loose, swirling strands of mist rising to dissipate in the sun's heat. It was as if the fog was trying to outrun the sunlight that was slowly but surely burning it away.

The old Carl Sandburg poem "Fog" came to mind:

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

But this fog colossus wasn't tiptoeing in on "little cat feet." More like something with big huge padded feet, like a cloud polar bear. Or maybe large birds, a dense flock of tundra swans, heavy and feathered...

Something that's nothing:
vapor erased by sunlight.
Misty metaphor.

Again I find myself inspired by the ephemeral, by something as insubstantial as fog. I remember my grandmother telling me that when she took flying lessons back in the 1930s (this was back in the days of open cockpit planes), she couldn't believe that when she stuck her hand out into the clouds, there was nothing there. Just as today, watching the mass of fog creep and twist its way up the coast, it was hard not to imagine it as alive in some way.

April 1: Calm Seas

I walked on the Rockland breakwater after work this afternoon with my friend Brian and his dog. It was truly the calm after the storm. Big wads of seaweed were strewn across the top of the breakwater, tossed there by recent high tides. Something big had clearly happened out there. But today the wide sky opened clear and blue above us, the sea calmly lapped the shore, the tide had pulled back to an unthreatening distance, and even the birds seemed mellow--except one insistent cardinal whose repetitive whistle sounded like a siren. We saw several loons pausing on their journey back to inland waters, some mergansers, eiders, and a small group of lingering long-tailed ducks carrying on a late afternoon chat. They seemed in no hurry to be heading northward. The air was mild, no breeze at all. Two biplanes flew over like we were in some weird nostalgic old movie. Looking back at the granite jetty as we were leaving, the long line of massive cut stones shone golden in the late light, stretching out like a delicate bridge to the lighthouse at the end.

Hold this memory:
loon's red eye gazing back, calm.
Blue skies, blue water.

Photo by Brian Willson

Simplistic, perhaps, but sometimes it's the most basic and ephemeral of images that stick with us the longest, something spotted along the road as we drove past at 50 MPH, a single bird glimpsed in a bush, the way the light shone for just one moment on a particular rock or tree.

March 31: Clouds Passing

Although the night sky is hidden by clouds now, earlier today we breathed a big sigh of relief when the rain finally stopped. The clouds began to pass eastward over the mountains, leaving behind sodden soils and a swollen river. Someone said we'd gotten 11 inches of rain this March, when we normally get about three. For a while sunlight shone into my office, illuminating the room in what seemed like a new and wonderful way. I wanted to stretch out in my rug like a cat. We exclaimed over patches of blue sky.

This respite from the elements lasted till dark, so I was able to run outside after work. Everywhere the earth seemed to be celebrating the passing of the rain. Birds warbled from budding trees: song sparrows, blackbirds, house finches, and robins--the first singing robins I've heard this spring. People were out running, walking, biking in that brief window before darkness. The river jubilantly spilled over its banks all along Route 105 and into town, creating tree-filled ponds, foreshortened lawns, wild rows of foaming waves, and new side streams. The air was redolent with that fresh lake water smell I associate with fishing. As I ran past the view of Mount Megunticook along 105, the tail end of the clouds was sweeping up its western flank like a vaporous scarf. Goodbye, rain!

Draped by cloud mantle,
mountain becomes resting girl
lulled by robin's song.

Like the mountain, I too can now rest, satisfied with my day's activities, uplifted by the birdsong of spring.

March 30: The Great Unconformity

A birder friend, Bryan Pfeiffer, recently hiked for several days by himself in the Grand Canyon. (You can see a beautiful one-minute slide show of his adventure at his blog, The Daily Wing.) Although I have visited the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, I wasn't fortunate enough to hike more than 1/2 mile down into the canyon, not far enough on the trail we followed to reach The Great Unconformity. A photo in Bryan's slideshow brought back my long-held fascination with this geological landmark that I first learned about in college geology classes and still hope to see someday in person.

Some background: An unconformity is the division between a younger rock layer and a much older one--a gap in time representing loss, because what it means is that there is no geologic record of the period between the two layers. For whatever reason no sediment was deposited during this time, or what was deposited was somehow washed or blown away. The cool thing is that when you put your hand on an unconformity, you're spanning millions of years. The Great Unconformity in the Grand Canyon represents a missing gap in Earth's history of 250 million to 1.2 billion years--an unfathomable chunk of this planet's history. It's mind-blowing, really. Above the Great Unconformity is sandstone with fossils of shells; below is Vishnu Schist, which formed in a time when the only creatures around to leave a fossil record were bacteria. 

What I didn't remember from those geology classes so long ago (though just a blink of an eye in geologic time) is that the Great Unconformity exists around the world. The Grand Canyon just offers some of the best exposures of it. 

Rock above, below;

one hand spans a billion years.

We are all mere dust.

 

March 29: Water Water Everywhere

Yesterday's forecast was for 100% chance of rain today, and for once it was accurate. It poured all day; it's still pouring. And amid the rain drops it drizzles and drips. The spillway over the dam is churning up some serious whitewater. Roadside ditches along Route 105 were running high and full by late afternoon. Crossing the Megunticook River on Rawson Avenue, I could see that the water was almost level with the lawns. Filled to the brim. Water's cascading off Mount Battie, at least what you could see of it earlier under its moist cap of fog and cloud. Now in the dark there's a roar outside that's a combination of wind, rain on the roof, and river's rush. Granted that river is only about 20 feet wide, but it can be loud when the water's high. Makes me thankful that we're above the flood plain.

This morning in Camden Harbor the combination of rainstorm and full moon had tugged the high tide almost level with the granite blocks of Harbor Park. Where the river crashed over the waterfall into the harbor, high spumes of white water raged and sprayed. (Similar water dramas were playing out at the two dams of the Knox Mill--wild enough to make you stop the car and marvel at the sheer force of all that water.) The harbor was about as full as it could be without spilling over into the parking lot or park, without wetting anyone's feet through the planks of the harborside walkway. It was as if the sea were barely restraining itself from breaking loose and rising into town.

Brimming bowl of sea
brought to boil by the full moon.
Springtime restlessness.

March 28: Coyote Window

A woman I know who lives on Ducktrap Mountain in Lincolnville takes trip-wire photographs at night of the animals hanging out in her woods. She recently shared a photograph of a coyote that I liked and saved to my computer desktop.

Photo by Corelyn Senn

So on my desktop now is a thumbnail image of this photo (much smaller than above), a study in grey and black: tiny coyote amid the vertical lines of tree trunks with a backdrop of darkness--a miniature window into a strange nighttime forest wherein lurks a prowling coyote. And other beasts--bobcats, foxes, ten-point buck standing before you like something out of a dream. I might keep the image on my desktop if just for this slightly spooky little glimpse into a world that gave birth to Little Red Riding-hood and tales of Coyote the trickster. Though who knows what will happen with this wily creature pinned to my screen like an icon, what affect it might have on my work as I type away with those untamed eyes upon me. I've always been a little afraid of the dark, and knowing what's out there isn't always a comfort.  But sometimes what unsettles us is what's most inspiring.

Prowling coyote--
this night creature on my screen
from dream, fairy tale.

March 27: Cold Run

Right now the thermometer says it's in the low 20s, but with wind chill, I'm sure it's really about ten degrees colder. So despite the day's sunny aspect, it's understandable why I debated for a while about whether to run outside or hit the Y this morning. Laziness won out over bodily comfort--I didn't feel like trekking across town to the Y to run in circles--so I bundled up and went outside. And then promptly turned around and came back inside for yet another layer. The sight of a budding daffodil in the yard did encourage me, however, that I had made the right decision opting "out." If that tender young flower could handle the cold, so could I.

As I began my slow plod up the street, I was encouraged to hear song sparrows singing. Focusing on their songs--and not the cold air searing my lungs or the wind buffeting my exposed ears--helped. As I moved through the crisp, beautiful, blue-sky morning, song sparrows were singing on both sides of the road. I felt like I was running along a song sparrow parade route. Small flocks of them scattered from the side of the road like wind-tossed leaves. Sparrows at every step, a song from every corner, each one a slight variation on the same theme.

A cold morning run
serenaded by sparrows--
each step a new song.

On one lawn, a small flock of robins poked around and clucked. This distracted me enough to make it up the biggest hill on my intended route. As I reached the relatively sheltered, tree-lined corridor of Cobb Road, it got even better. Birds were singing everywhere: song sparrows, a house finch, several downy woodpeckers, strident blue jays, goldfinches, more song sparrows, more robins, titmice, chickadees, trilling juncos, and the beautiful, liquid spring song of a lone brown creeper. Despite the shell of ice on the little patch of marsh, a single red-winged blackbird sang, undaunted. Two crows in a big oak silently watched me pass. As I headed home down Washington Street, flocks of sparrows seemed to linger in every bush, and I wished, not for the first time, that there were a way to run with binoculars. In one sunny spot, a male downy woodpecker's red head spot caught the light and shone like a little beacon. Back on my own street, golden-crowned kinglet songs floated overhead. And before I knew it, I was slogging down the sidewalk to my oh-so-warm house, grateful to the birds for having escorted me all the way through my chilly run.