March 4: Sunday Morning

Sometimes the day's greatest pleasures can be its simplest ones, like sleeping in a little late and then sitting across from my husband at the breakfast table while he reads and I work on a crossword. He's just boiled eggs, and I've got an awesome sticky bun from Home Kitchen and a big mug of green tea with honey. The cat purrs nearby, hoping for handouts. Still in my flannel PJs, I've got nothing ahead of me planned for the day beyond finishing this puzzle.

Perfect Sunday start:
crossword puzzle, sticky bun.
Paul and cat here too.

March 3: Explosion of robins

Robins are all over town today, perhaps having ridden in with the rain on this warm front. We drove by a crabapple tree, and a large flock literally exploded out of the branches, robins everywhere, their rosy breasts contrasting nicely with the still-fresh snow and the grey cast to this bleak day. Robins seemed to be perched in every tree as we passed through town to the YMCA. The first thing I heard when we got out of the car was a robin's cluck. And from the workout room windows, I could see robins poised in trees, scattered throughout the woods behind the Y. (The Y, incidentally, also features some stands of beautiful, full-blown pussy willows, if you need a good seasonal pick-me-up.) As we made our way home, I noted lots more robins, including some in our own yard. These birds are moving through, probably heading northward; their numbers indicate that something's in the air. But that something won't really be spring as we know it until we see these omnivorous thrushes change their eating habits from pillaging the last lingering fruits and berries to pulling worms from our thawed lawns.

Let's encourage rain
to expose our worm-filled lawns
for hungry robins.

March 2: Birch bark

There's a white birch on the edge of our parking lot, visible from the kitchen window if you peer through the hanging bird feeder. I notice that natural trunk growth--or perhaps the ravages of winter--has caused some of the bark to peel off in long, curled strips that look like small parchment scrolls or something you'd find tucked inside a fortune cookie. This tree often provides a perch for chickadees, who peck open sunflower seeds on its branches or wait there for a turn at the feeder. A bird might notice the peeling bark as a potential hiding place for insects to glean. My thought, as I paused in the driveway this morning to listen to the chickadees belting out their spring courtship songs, was that these slips of birch paper were like little love notes to the birds--billets-doux from the tree to the chickadees.

Birch bark scroll flapping--
a love note unfurled by wind,
read by chickadees.

March 1: Snowflakes

March is coming in like a polar bear this year, with the first snow storm we've seen in weeks. I've been mesmerized by snow sifting off the roof in whispering waves, and by fluffy, wind-blown flakes swirling in all directions outside the window, whirling dervishes of snow. The bleak lawn has been restored to a clean, white canvas, written on only by the occasional weed and last summer's grasses poking through.

Big flakes cling to my window, retain their entrancing forms as lacy, six-sided crystals. It's almost a cliche to marvel at the perfect beauty of a snowflake, but really, just think of each one forming up in its cold cloud, those microscopic bits of ice accreting to create each unique crystal, which then falls with millions of others just like it (and yet each different!) to create this thick blanket of snow... Watching snow is really a meditation on the power of many small things coming together as one.

I put my nose up to the window to get a closer look. On the other side of the glass, the tiny, dried-up florets of a Queen Anne's lace blossom perfectly echo the snowflakes' starry shapes.

Snow crystals--entranced,
I almost hesitate to
get out the shovel.

February 29: Snow beasts

While we haven't had a real snowfall in weeks, the woods and shaded corners of our lawns harbor snow beasts--big lumps of unmelted snow that have lingered on through these dry but still-cold days. These amorphous white blobs poise in stark contrast to the surrounding brown and grey landscape. An especially large, polar bear-ish lump of snow along the roadside seemed a natural embodiment of winter's last hold on us--almost gone, but with with a sense of foreboding in its lurking, predatory presence.

Tomorrow the prediction is for 100% chance of snow, our first "real" winter storm in at least a month. For a few days at least, these remnant patches will unify into one mass, winter expanding again over the neighborhood like a living glacier. But when temperatures rise again, melting the plowed embankments and shoveled heaps, the snow beasts will once again emerge as individual forms... before eventually melting away again back into the landscape.

Thinking glacial thoughts,

roadside snow remnant holds fast

for the coming storm.

February 28: White wings

Gulls were unusually active around my office this afternoon. We're only a mile from the ocean, so seeing a gull is an everyday occurrence. But we don't often get quite the visitation we had today. Every time I glanced out the window I saw a flash of white wings dipping over the trees. Gulls soared over the dam. At one point, I was startled by the tiny image of a gull flying past, its reflection caught in a photograph on my director's desk. During a conversation with a co-worker, I had to consciously stop looking away from him every time a gull came into my peripheral vision. It was a little bit like seeing stars, those brief glimpses of quickly moving white birds throughout the day.

There's a dairy farm near Route One in Rockport over which a flock of gulls can regularly be found swarming. It can sometimes look like a scene from "The Birds." I've always assumed they were finding things to eat amid the spilled feed and cow droppings. While our gulls today weren't quite that numerous, I do wonder what they were attracted to. Was our neighbor tossing out bread again? Was something interesting (for a gull, that would translate to "food-producing") happening in the open water of the river out back? Or were they just gracing us with their presence?

Gull visitation--
a blessing of white feathers
or a distraction?

February 27: Finch in the driveway

On the way to the local market I pass a slightly run-down house. There's often a big dog chained outside; its droppings litter the lawn. The siding, which was not a pretty color to begin with, is worn and faded. Porch railings need mending, and random pieces of plywood and toys lie about the yard. The house wears a casual, unkempt air--thoroughly lived-in but perhaps not especially cared for. It reminds me a little of some places we lived when I was a child, a home typical of those who are paying more attention to getting by than keeping their yard picked up or painting trim.

I was walking by this house, looking straight ahead up the street, when a small, quick movement caught my eye. I looked over, half-expecting to see a piece of wind-blown trash skitter across the short driveway. But instead, a little house finch pecked amid the gravel, a male bird with brown streaks and a bright raspberry-colored head. I don't know what he was after down there, but for a few moments, he added an understated note of true beauty to that bleak yard.

I hope someone there
noticed the pink-headed finch
gracing their driveway.

February 26: Budding

A sparkling day, the river running high and bright out back as the sun relaxes into the west. I ran into some neighbors at the corner market and we shared relief that this has thus far been an "easy" winter, without the constant snow-shoveling of last winter. We both have short driveways that defy being plowed--nowhere else to put our cars or for the plow to push the excess snow. So shoveling is always at least a two-part, back-aching process: once to get out of the driveway in the morning, and at least once more to get back into the driveway in the evening after the street plow has banked several feet of snow across it. Don't miss that at all.

My neighbors have a bigger yard than I do and get more sun. They tell me their crocuses are already starting to poke up little green leaf spikes. And they mentioned their forsythia is starting to bud. So on the walk back from the market, I clipped a few forsythia sprigs from another neighbor's bush (she doesn't mind; she has it pruned back to nothing every other year). Hopefully, in a few weeks, spring will have sprung forth from the vase I put them in. Apparently you can force blueberry plant cuttings, as well, which I'm tempted to try. Usually I remember to start some narcissus bulbs or at least an amaryllis, but this year my meager forsythia twigs will have to do until the gardens outside begin to awaken.

Just thinking about
forsythia twigs budding
makes me feel warmer.

February 25: Space ship

We drove south this evening into a gaudy pink sunset which slowly faded to lavender, then gray, with billowy clouds lingering backlit above the horizon. To the north a cloud shaped just like a space ship hovered above Portland's Back Bay. Rather than dissipating, it retained its shape for a long time. I found myself thinking about how I would feel if it actually were a space ship. I think one of the reasons why some people want to believe in extraterrestrial life visiting Earth is that these alien tourists would be to us like gods: smarter, more technologically advanced beings watching over us, building some pyramids, maybe, or crafting a few crop circles. Maybe they could help reverse global warming. On the other hand, what if they aren't benevolent? I had a nightmare once that I was vivisected by aliens. And of course we've all seen movies like "Alien."

The spaceship cloud was a large one, and it glowed long after the moon came into view. It may still have been in holding position when, in near dark, we reached my brother- and sister-in-laws' house.

Watchful spaceship cloud--
how much we want to believe
something up there cares.

February 24: Cat and birds

A flurry of bird activity this morning attracted our cat's attention. She dashed into the kitchen and jumped up onto the counter so quickly I wasn't sure what had happened. When I looked over, she was staring intently through the window as a nuthatch grabbed a seed. Then there was a rush of titmice, repeatedly flying from the feeder to a branch and back. There's no look more finely focused, more rapt, than that of a predator staring at its prey. Knowing that this indoor cat will never kill a bird, I'm happy at least that she has the diversion of being able to watch them and perhaps dream.

Cat inside, birds out.
Exciting or frustrating
to see them so close?

February 23: River mist

All morning a thick mist rose into the air off the iced-in river, a hazy, shifting wall of fog between us and the opposite shore. The air above the river is warmer than the ice and laden with moisture. Spring-like air. Hence, the mist. From the pines beyond, a pileated woodpecker has been calling sporadically, loudly. His odd laughter, combined with the dense mist, have lent an eerie quality to the river as observed from the climate-controlled comfort of my office. Now, a bank of clouds rolls away eastward and the river ice, exposed at last to sunlight, shines.

Still-frozen river
giving up winter's ghost--
February mist.