April 17: Cacophony of Finches

While up the road in Northport they awoke to snow this morning, here in Camden it's a grey, cold, but otherwise uneventful day in terms of weather. The empty sky plays a blank white backdrop for red maple buds. Other than a squirrel poised on a tree trunk waving its tail with the frantic energy of a parade-going kid with a flag, the back yard is quiet as the sky. Up the river at my parents' house, however, it's a different story. The pine and birch trees around their house are full of birdsong--a clamoring chorus of primarily goldfinches and purple finches, accompanied by a brown creeper, a handful of blackbirds, and what sounded like a trilling chipping sparrow. A lively bunch over there. Goldfinch music comprises long, voluble, and varied bursts of chattering, mewing, and chirping. I'm not sure why they're all so wound up, because unlike most songbirds, they won't breed and nest until mid-summer. Maybe they're just excited to have back their bright yellow plumage and to be able to enjoy the progressively longer days. Or maybe all that singing helps keep them warm. In any case, the crazy cacophony of all those birds injected the proper note of excitement into my husband's birthday morning.

Paul's birthday highlights:
sunbursts of forsythia,
yellow finch singing.

April 16: Not a Broad-Wing

This morning as I was leaving for work, I heard a broad-winged hawk calling. It's a distinctive call, a piercing, high-pitched whistle. (You can hear it here, though if you don't click away from the web page, the song repeats indefinitely. If you have dogs near, it will probably drive them--and you--crazy.) It called repeatedly (somewhat like the link I just posted) but rather faintly for a hawk that also sounded like it was in my back yard. I looked up and didn't see anything soaring overhead. They've been migrating through in high numbers this week, according to the Bradbury Mountain hawk watch, and I was looking forward to seeing my first one of the year. Often in summers past I've heard the call and stepped out into the yard to see a broad-wing or two circling in the sky above Mount Battie. I know of at least one pair that has nested in the area. But the sky was empty today as far as I could see. Then I realized: I was being duped by a blue jay.

And not for the first time. I've heard blue jays imitate broad-winged hawks, red-tailed hawks, and ospreys. I've also recently heard a blue jay respond to the "beep-beep" of my car door opener, both in my own driveway and elsewhere, with a perfect-pitch imitation. It wasn't just a fluke either; it beeped back in the same way each time I opened the doors. I'm not sure what the evolutionary advantage is to being such a successful mimic, but given that the blue jay's specialty seems to be raptors, perhaps it's to mess with other birds, to scare them off their eggs or otherwise distract them for some nefarious purpose of its own. Or perhaps it just enjoys playing with sounds. Jays are generally very verbal birds, and tricky. This one certainly played on my expectations this morning, as if it knew just what I was hoping to see and decided to taunt me.

No broad-wing, just jays--
spring's teasing reminder of
what's not yet returned.

April 15: Swamp Sparrow

This morning after a meeting in Rockland I made a short side-trip to Weskeag Marsh before heading back to the office. A birder friend has been reporting glossy ibises and gadwalls. Of course I didn't see either of those locally uncommon birds, but it was a rewarding trip nonetheless. About a dozen great blue herons were scattered throughout the marsh among the gulls, as well as one great and one snowy egret. A kingfisher perched on a branch, making short forays for fish. One heron flew in close and seemed to stalk a large piece of plastic that had blown into the marsh. I wondered if it was curious. But I soon realized what was really holding its attention, as it suddenly stabbed into the shallow water right next to the plastic and brought up a little fish. (I assume it was a little fish--whatever it was rapidly vanished down the heron's long throat.) A red-tailed hawk soared over the tree line, scouting its borders. I could hear the short song of a Savannah sparrow in the weeds, and then, the musical trill of a swamp sparrow.

At least I thought it was a swamp sparrow. Every year I seem to learn a few more bird songs. Last year I picked up the swamp sparrow song and was able to identify a few birds by ear that I later confirmed with my binoculars. I'm not good in general at telling apart all the trilling songbirds. Palm and pine warblers, juncos, chipping and swamp sparrows--listening to them on recordings just makes it more confusing. So I began to second guess myself--maybe it was a palm warbler? They're migrating through in numbers right now, so wouldn't that make more sense? I had to track the bird down in an alder thicket to be sure. And I was quietly proud of myself when it did indeed turn out to be a swamp sparrow--proof that I had really added another bird song to my crowded brain.

I was also excited because the swamp sparrow's a very pretty bird, with a red crown, grey face, white throat, light breast, and feathering in earth tones from buff to rust to sienna.

For many minutes I watched him, admiring these subtle details of plumage, till he dropped out of sight. Across the road where there's a little pond, another swamp sparrow sang. A harrier soared up over the pannes as I gave one last look out my windshield. And I headed back to work with a smile on my face.

Swamp sparrow's sweet trill--
such simple satisfaction
in naming that song.

April 14: Seeing Red

This afternoon, like some strange flashback to fall, I was struck by the red haze in the trees as I drove past a stretch of budding maple trees. Poplars are starting to leaf out in places, too--the leaves are about the size of a squirrel's ear--so there's an interesting interplay of red maple flowers, freshly minted yellow-green poplar leaves, and that robin's egg blue sky that you only see in spring. Not my favorite color combination as far as nature's palette goes--a little garish for me--but because it indicates the progression of the season, I'll take it.

Like the magnolia, the maple blooms before its leaves unfurl, and seen up close the flowers are frilly, intricate little things:

From a US Forest Service website on trees, I learned this: "Red maple flowers are structurally perfect." Of course they are! What product of nature isn't?

I also read this: "The species is polygamo-dioecious. Thus, some trees are entirely male, producing no seeds; some are entirely female; and some are monoecious, bearing both male and female flowers. On monoecious trees, functioning male and female flowers usually are separated on different branches. Sex of the flower is not a function of tree vigor. The species shows a tendency toward dioeciousness rather than toward dichogamy." I'm not entirely sure what that all means, but it sounds like a maple stand is a bit of a red light district, with some gender ambiguity and interesting flower sex going on.

Blooming maple tree,
the rush of spring through your limbs
makes us both redden.

April 13: Fiddlehead

Fiddleheads are just starting to burst through the earth into daylight. On a lunchtime stroll around my office today in hopes of absorbing energy from the sun like a plant, I noticed several fuzzy brown fern knobs poking an inch or two above the lawn:

Little fern embryos slowly unfurling, opening themselves to air and light for another season. They look like small animals curled up for a nap. I'm remembering this patch contains interrupted ferns--a fern with big fronds whose green leaflets are "interrupted" by sections of brown, spore-producing leaflets. Interrupted fern fiddleheads are not edible, and in fact would probably make you ill even if you didn't mind their bitter taste. So these critters are safe from this fernavore, at least. 

Here in Maine most fiddleheads on the menu are baby ostrich ferns, and I'm anticipating their appearance in our local markets any day now. My husband steams them, then mixes them with spaghetti pasta and a little butter and parmesan to make a perfect, light, springtime meal. 

Unfurling fern fists

punching their way into light.

Our hearts, too, open.

April 12: A Letter

Today I came home from work to find a special piece of mail in the usual pile on my coffee table. My 3-1/2-year-old niece had left a "letter" in my mother's mailbox (with a cat sticker for a stamp) and raised the red flag. To ensure that I would actually receive this precious communication, my mother then snuck it out of her mailbox and into mine. In big, wobbly, but legible letters, my name was written on both the front of the envelope and on the "letter" inside. The well-folded letter also included what I think was a purple portrait of either me or her. Seeing my name spelled out in her childish scrawl gave me a weird flashback to myself at about the same age writing my name on a birthday card for my grandfather. She even made her R the same way I did back then, like a circle with two legs. Making that card is one of my earliest memories. My two nieces are about as close to my own children as I'll ever get, so the moment was one of those full circle things--my niece is me 40 years later. And soon she'll be reading, writing stories, learning cursive (if kids still do that). Her own journey as a writer is just beginning.

Today is also the birthday of my sister, the mother of my niece. Since I was nine when she was born, I remember that exciting day--and the progress of her own childhood--well. How fast it all happens. And now that little baby I was convinced was going to be a baby brother, the little girl who wanted to be a ballerina and always posed for the camera, now she has two beautiful girls of her own. Sappy, I know, but that's what inspired me today. Happy birthday, Erin. And thank you for the lovely letter, Fiona.

Those big scrawled letters
K-R-I-S-T-E-N--
are they mine or hers?

April 11: Grass

This afternoon I returned home from my weekend on Vinalhaven and was shocked to see how unkempt--indeed, almost overgrown--my lawn looks. I don't think I'd raked the yard by this date last year. In fact, I don't even think the lawn was fully thawed by this date last year! But spring seems to have arrived early, and these past two bright days the blades of grass in our postage stamp-sized yard have clearly been sucking in the sunlight and photosynthesizing like crazy. Solar power rocks!

I guess I shouldn't be too surprised by all this. There were other signs. On a walk through moss-lush woods on Vinalhaven this morning, we came across a vernal pool that was already clotted with cloudy masses of frog's eggs. Driving home from the ferry, I was startled to see in Rockland a fully flowered pink magnolia. My neighbors' rhubarb is up. I've read reports that in some Maine streams alewives are already running. Mourning cloak butterflies have emerged. Less exciting but no less interesting from this seasonal perspective, I've heard the deer ticks are already awful (first quarter Lyme disease cases in Maine are higher than they've ever been), and black flies--whose only value is as bird fodder--have been observed in the local woods.

But back to my yard. I let most of my back yard grow free, since no one sees it and I enjoy the wildflowers. So the front yard gets all the attention. Tthat's where my main flower beds are, so I like it to look cared for, to fully showcase the poppies and peonies, the hostas and herbs. Also, as I type this, I'm watching the final day of the Masters. Those beautifully manicured golf greens taunt me with their perfection. Bottom line: I'm going to have to mow soon.

Spring's battle heats up:
green blades sprung from earth's scabbard
to face the mower.

April 10: Mussel Shells

My friend Elizabeth and I have been enjoying our one full day on Vinalhaven for our alleged writing retreat. OK, granted last night we drank wine and read poetry to each other, but did we do any writing today? How could we, when after yesterday's fog we awoke this morning to a sparkling harbor and a day before us with no plans? Mid-morning we decided to walk around town. Before we could get far, the nice shop owner across the street (whom we met yesterday while doing our part to contribute to the local economy) offered to take us for a drive around the island. So we saw the relatively new Vinalhaven school, the Eldercare home where elderly island residents can enjoy the last phase of their lives without having to leave the island, a granite quarry that looks like an amazing summer swimming hole, a renovated old school that is now the town office, the launching place for boats to North Haven--which looks close enough to swim to from there--and the three giant, surprisingly graceful-looking new wind turbines, of which 99.9% of the islanders (according to our driver) are very proud.

Back on foot and on our own, we walked through town to Lane's Island, connected to Vinalhaven by a causeway. Most of the island is a Nature Conservancy preserve, so we wandered trails through bayberry and brambles along the windy water's edge and visited the old Lane family burial plot. We enjoyed views of a young harrier, a vocal male kestrel precariously balanced on the tip of a spruce, my first flicker of the year, a bald eagle, and my first north-bound yellowlegs. Also admired the architecture of many of the older buildings in town, as well as the colorful jumble of lobster traps, buoys, and ropes that I find so appealing in working fishing harbors. All that chilly wind and fresh air exhausted us, so Elizabeth is napping now to the white noise of the mill race on a falling tide. While she settled down to sleep, I stepped out to snap a few more photos as the light brightened, and that's how I came across today's haiku moment.

While wandering around the public pier next to our inn looking for photo opps of the harbor, I was startled to hear the sound of tinkling little bells. For a moment, I was reminded of a conversation I had this morning with a shop clerk about The Polar Express and how thrilled her young grandson was to receive a real "Polar Express" jingle bell for Christmas. It's not Christmas, but some sort of magic was making music in the bracing sea air. Upon close inspection of the detritus blowing across the parking lot, I realized with some surprise that sound was the result of tiny mussel shells--originally brought up on lobster traps now drying on the pier--blowing across the pavement. Here's one of the shells, in situ and larger than life (actually about the size of the end of my thumb):

With every brisk gust of wind, handfuls of these little shells skittered across the asphalt (which as you can see from the photo is not smooth), creating their own dynamic and exquisite wind chime.

Tiny mussel bells--
magic music of mollusks,
a living wind chime.

April 9: Island Ferry

My friend Elizabeth and I are spending the weekend on Vinalhaven, ostensibly for a writing retreat, though as she said when we saw the palatial room we're staying in, "I don't know whether to take a nap, curl up with a book, take a bath in that big tub, or open that bottle of wine and watch the fog." Here's our view to the left:

The skies are supposed to clear tonight, so maybe by tomorrow all the fishing boats will emerge from the thick fog.

The thing about visiting islands it that you have to take a boat to get there. The ferry ride from Rockland was about an hour and 15 minutes, during which time Elizabeth and I sat across from each other in the cramped passenger area, with just a wall of white out the window, and gabbed. When we landed, it was almost startling to be reminded that the rather dream-like ride was just the passage, the means to the end, and now we were where we had wanted to be and had to actually get up and do something about it. It was as if it was enough just knowing we were on our way to this island retreat--we could have happily remained in anticipatory limbo for hours more. I was reminded in a way of Elizabeth Bishop's brilliant poem "The Moose," which beautifully captures the lulling rhythm of travel. Our journey, however, was unpunctuated by anything exciting like a moose sighting. Just lots of fog, rain, water, and a handful of gulls washed clean.

Lulling wave rhythm--
our ferry takes hours in fog,
rocking in limbo.

April 8: Owl Dream

Last night I dreamed that I was lying in bed while great horned owls hooted loudly in the woods outside the house. It was one of those dreams that was so vivid I awoke wondering if I'd really been dreaming. Could my subconscious have perhaps picked up on real owls? My memory flashed back to summer nights when I had heard barred owls outside my parents' house right up the river, hooting in the wee hours in loud chorus with the loons.

Someone I know reported hearing four or five barred owls calling in one spot the other night. Barred owls are courting now, which makes them as restless and sociable as hormone-addled teenagers. While barred owls call year round, but right now they're particularly chatty. My friend Ron can imitate perfectly their common nocturnal query: "who cooks for you, who cooks for you all?" He's summoned a group of maybe half a dozen barred owls that called back and forth like a pack of monkeys in the jungle and got so worked up at this perceived invader that one flew right over our heads. They can make some crazy noises in the dark, noises that don't always sound owlish and aren't always soothing to awaken to.

Photo Credit: Hal Korber/PGC

Now that I've raked the leaves off my flower beds and have been paying attention to what's coming up each day, I notice on an almost daily basis the stone owl carving that sits amid my herbs. I've always been drawn to owls, and like to think of this one as a sort of guardian of the garden. My neighbor's little girl, who is such a fan of owls that she dressed up as one last Halloween, likes to come over and just look at it. When I woke up last night after my owl dream, I had this weird sensation that maybe the owl stone had come to life and was warning something away from the house.

Teens on street corners;
barred owls hooting like monkeys:
spring courting begins.

To hear them for yourself (the owls, not the teens), visit the Cornell Lab's barred owl page and scroll down below the photo to find the "Typical Voice" recording. But don't blame me if you have weird dreams!

April 7: On the Move

Thanks to the miracles of modern technology, I'm writing this blog entry while waiting for my car to get its 30,000-mile tune-up. Even Bath Subaru's waiting room has free wi fi! I spent this morning before my car appointment on the move running some errands in the Portland area. On the drive down, notable bird sightings included an osprey and a turkey. The hawk watch on Bradbury Mountain in Pownal reported that the wind had shifted this morning, so now southwesterly--just what the hawks want to boost their migration mileage. By 11:45 they had tallied 50 birds and that was just about when things were "really starting to pick up." Before I learned this, however, I had noticed many more birds soaring overhead as I drove back north. I picked out three, maybe four, eagles, a bunch of vultures, and two ospreys. And that's just what could be seen directly overhead while I sped along 295 between South Portland and Bath--imagine what else is out there following the ridge lines and thermals on this clear day. There's also an osprey back at the nest in the Route One median in Bath.

When we were up on Bradbury Mountain the other day for a few hours, at one point an osprey flew directly overhead, giving us all beautiful views of its brown and white plumage, crooked wings, and fingered wing tips. I can picture it in my head as clearly as a snapshot. But what struck me most as I think back now was its gaze--that steely-eyed focus on the distant horizon ahead. We humans directly below on the open ledge meant nothing to this bird. Nor the houses, the roads, the streams of cars, the smoke of brushfires. The osprey was on a mission, a mission encoded in its very genes. Its steady flight northward was an inner directive powered by the essential, awe-inspiring force of Nature itself. A force even more miraculous to me than wi fi!

Osprey flying north
impelled by some inner force.
I'm moved to follow.