March 15: Ides of March

A headache's driven
out all possibility
of a good poem.

March 14: Watch the road

Doesn't it always happen that when you're in a hurry, the guy driving in front of you is going 20 MPH under the speed limit? And when you finally get past him, that sense of impatience lingers. Fortunately, I took some deep breaths, slowed back down, and relaxed a bit, because just a few minutes later I came to an intersection at which a car was stopped halfway through at an odd angle. No accident. I think the car just died and rolled there. The poor driver was standing there on her cell phone obviously calling for help. Several minutes after that, if I hadn't regained my calm, I might have clipped a turkey. Instead, I was able to watch with a smile as a small flock safely disappeared into the roadside shrubbery. When I finally got to my destination, I felt like I'd successfully run a gauntlet of sorts.

Slowed, I didn't kill
that woodchuck or those turkeys.
A good day to drive.

March 13: Christmas cactus

Last year it didn't flower at all, so this year I guess I'll just think of the Christmas cactus as blooming nine months early. For some reason one of my three Christmas cacti suddenly decided to put forth four translucent pink blossoms worthy of the tropics. In the absence of crocus in my flower beds, I'll take these inside. Hanging by my front window, they make me smile each morning when I raise the blinds. I know that all too soon they'll dry up and drop off... and then it will be another year or two before I see more.

Ephemeral bloom--
for a moment I'm thinking
of warmer places.

March 12: First Grackle

Things are really heating up around here: I saw my first grackles of the season fly over the gas station while I was filling up this afternoon. (The great thing about birding is that you might see a cool bird--and all birds are cool--just about anywhere. As long as you're paying attention.) Many people find grackles annoying. From the blackbird family, they gang up and mob bird feeders, they're loud, and their song--though interesting--can hardly be called music. But watch them closely. In the sunlight that boring black plumage becomes iridescent green and purple, accented by a bright yellow eye. When they fly, the males hold their tails vertically, like little rudders guiding them through the air. And they're one of the first birds of the season to return, certainly cause for celebration as we transition into spring.

Common grackles carry the lovely Latin name of Quiscalus quiscula. (Photo from Wikimedia Commons.)

In a couple months
they'll be "just grackles" again.
Right now they mean "spring."

March 11: Patch of Sun

Spring was in the air and in the quality of the sunlight as my husband and I walked up Beech Hill in Rockport. We saw pussy willows along the muddy trail, and although we saw no sign of the bluebirds that have been hanging out up there the past few days, we did hear many chickadees singing their courtship songs in the alders. I noticed too that the alders, birches, and other small trees visible at a distance in the lower fields are shifting hue as they begin to bud out. The sun felt good on my pale face.

Upon returning home, I wanted to continue to feel the warmth of the day's sun on my body, but our house, bounded as it is by a mountain on one side and many trees on the other, doesn't let in a lot of light. The air still carries enough of winter's chill that hanging outside on the back porch to soak up the last rays of afternoon's sunlight, isn't yet an option. So instead I found myself literally crawling around on the floor trying to find one sunny patch in which to read a book. I ended up in the hall next to the laundry room, light falling across my legs for a brief half hour. My husband gave me an odd look when he found me there. It wasn't even enough light to entice the cat.

The cat too disdains
my tiny patch of precious
early spring sunshine.

March 10: Driving home

Route One north of Portland has some long dark stretches at night, interrupted only by the head and tail lights of other cars and the occasional streetlight or intermittent sign. Then a car dealership will appear, packed with shining cars gleaming under dozens of lights. Or the overlit oasis of a gas station/convenience store, the kind you can always count on to be open no matter how late. Or the night will be punctuated by that "oh my god" moment when you crest a hill and glimpse the recently full moon rising low, orange, and huge--a giant potato of a moon--that puts all the other distractions to shame.

There it is again--
enormous moon, low, rising,
outshining all else.

March 9: Chasing my shadow

Often on longer drives, my mind wanders into more imaginative terrain. Perhaps it's the stimulation of the ever-changing landscape outside the window or the simple thrill of being on the road with blue skies and sunshine around me. As I was driving eastward home from a trip to Bath this afternoon, the setting sun  cast the shadow of my car directly before me on the road. I was tailgating my own shadow. My car is fairly compact, squat-looking from the sun's low angle. I amused myself with the idea that my car's shadow looked some sort of Japanese anime character: the side-view mirrors gave it the appearance of having ears; the two front seat headrests were its eyes. Weird thought, I know. But it helped while away the miles. I was actually a bit disappointed when the sun sank so low that the shadow disappeared; I'd gotten used to thinking of it a separate entity that I was following up Route One.

My car's cast shadow
becomes a strange gray creature
I'm following home.

March 8: Crow's Nest

One of my co-workers reported seeing a crow fly by the office today carrying a bunch of twigs in its bill. With today's temperature rising into the 60s, it's not so surprising the crow was thinking of nest-building. Later, a small conclave of crows was gathered on the grass down by the dam, pecking at the remnants of someone's lunch and perhaps discussing the finer points of making nests--which trees produce the best twigs, what's the best diameter branch, how to twist the body just so to make the coolest shape...

With bill full of twigs,
crow flies to its waiting mate.
Home's where we make it.

March 7: Pairing off

From my office window I can see a long patch of open water on the Megunticook River. This afternoon two pairs of spiffy common mergansers were hanging out together there, diving and drifting for a few hours. They were in bright breeding plumage and close enough that the males' green heads contrasted strikingly with their white bodies, and their bills were a vivid red-orange visible without binoculars. Pair bonds already formed, they're on their way to lakes and rivers further inland to breed.

The river opens.
Thoughts turned to nesting northward,
ducks gather, pair off.

March 6: Blue sky

Home sick today. Outside stretches a brilliant, cloudless blue sky, the kind of sky that prompted Dickey Betts of the Allman Brothers to write about his girlfriend (in the song "Blue Sky"), "You're my blue sky, you're my sunny day..." At least the dazzling day's providing me good light to read by, as I huddle near the front window wrapped up in a thick blanket, book in hand.

Stuck in with a cold,
taunted by this perfect day.
Sun, snow, river shine.

March 5: Crow convergence

So wonderful to see blue sky still at 5 p.m. And apparently the crows were excited about it too. As I was leaving the office for a meeting, dozens of crows were flying from all directions toward a nearby stand of pines. The waxing moon had risen above snowy Mount Battie, glowing with the setting sun's rosy light. And in the foreground, crows came from all directions, some swirling in the air, some landing in the trees, feathered black silhouettes everywhere I looked. I almost drove off the road, I was so intent on figuring out what they were up to. But they didn't seem to be gathering with that same frantic urgency as when there's a hawk or owl to chase away, no diving or swooping at anything. They were just, well, gathering, like one big crow happy hour.

Company of friends--
even crows enjoy chilling
together, day's end.