March 26: Red Buds

The world was in motion today. Gusty wind created white caps on the small patch of the river by my office. Branches swirled. Crows swept past the windows. Downtown, everyone was rushing on the sidewalks to get to where they were going, in out of the wind and cold. With so much kinetic energy in the air, focusing on one thing was a challenge. Yet for a moment, while paused at the bank's drive-up window of all places, my eye fixed on something that stood out in the bleak, windy woods: a maple tree red with budding flowers.

Humming now with sap,
maple boughs push forth red buds.
I can be patient.

March 25: Small town

My husband and I just got back from a memorial service that filled the Camden Opera House, standing room only. I'm not exaggerating much when I say that almost everyone I know in Camden was in attendance. My husband and I were there because Don was a key member of the Rotary club I belong to, a genuinely kind person with a lively mind whose civic-minded life I greatly admired. People were joking that if Don had been there this afternoon, he'd have wanted all of us to vote on something, to get something accomplished for the community. The memorial was certainly better attended than many town meetings I've attended. 

The memorial was a moving experience, with many stories shared by Don's brothers. One of them commented on how everywhere he's been in the past week since Don's passing--the grocery store, the library, a play, a concert, the dump--he's run into someone offering condolences and asking how he's doing. After talking to dozens of people, I left feeling very grateful to live in the same small town where my mother was born, a place where I know that if I need the support of my community, it will be there, in the post office, the corner grocery, the bookstore... Yes, as they say, everyone knows your business in a small town, for better or worse. But there can be much comfort in that, in being part of a true web of human connections.

His simple mantra:

What can I do to help you?

And, Always give thanks.

 

 

March 24: Raking leaves

Because the fair weather has persisted, my husband and I chose today to commence our annual Raking of the Leaves. The day-long activity kept us warm in the chillier air, and the lawns and flower beds now look ready for spring's touch. The lilac and quince bushes already boast fat leaf buds, and tulip leaves push up here and there like green flags waving on the season. We uncovered a few previously undiscovered snow drops and crocuses. We also uncovered quite a few curled up woolly bear caterpillars, which had undoubtedly been hibernating in the heaps of dead leaves around the yard. Knowing the weather is supposed to get even more seasonable soon--i.e. much colder--we tried to put them in places where they'd continue to be protected from the elements.

Don't be fooled. Hang tight,
woolly bear, until spring is
really here to stay.

March 23: Litter

Sometimes on beaches we'll come across driftwood or dead trees bedecked with found buoys that washed up on shore. A "buoy tree" is a great way to clean up all the flotsam scattered across a beach and make something decorative, even sculptural, from the litter, especially when you don't have the means to carry all that trash off island. I thought of this today when I drove past a roadside brush pile in a grassy vacant lot. Someone had obviously put in some effort to clean up the lot, making a big heap of fallen branches and other detritus. What makes the brush pile distinctive are the discarded bottles and cans stuck on the ends of all the branches poking out. They make the pile somehow look both trashy and artistic at the same time. Someone must have decided that simply clearing the field wasn't enough, that creating such an installation (mixed media: wood, aluminum, plastic) was more interesting than simply tossing all those empties into a trash bag.

No longer mere trash,
these colorful cans are now
parts of a sculpture.

March 22: Suddenly

I swear they weren't there this morning. Of course, I was distracted because I thought I'd heard my first phoebe of spring, so maybe I missed them. They definitely weren't there yesterday. But this afternoon I suddenly noticed that the coltsfoot was blooming under the white pine outside our office--our first wildflower of the season. Perhaps the day's freakish 80-degree weather enticed the multitudes of yellow blossoms up through the pine needles in record time.

Later, I ran sluggishly across town, my asthmatic lungs unaccustomed to the heat. As I neared my destination, however, my pace picked up. I could hear a loud chorus of peepers in Lily Pond, behind the Y. They weren't there a couple of nights ago. We drove home the long way, through Aldermere Farm, with windows down so we could hear them in full force. A hot pink sunset was settling over the pond as we drove past, and a flock of geese grazed in the pasture. If the songs of frogs can make our spirits soar so easily, imagine how the female tree frogs must feel.

Light, warmth, and hormones--
simple recipe to thrill
hearts of frogs, and us.

March 21: Perfect sunset

Someone told me a very funny story at the end of a reception on this sultry evening, so I left in high spirits, open to joy. I was wearing flip-flops on this second day of spring. Jupiter and Venus hung together, bright above the red glow of sunset. In the field next to where my car was parked, I could hear the twittering of displaying male woodcocks. I stood by the field for several minutes listening. Off to the east I could see red Mars: a planet trifecta. When a bird landed, in the pause between aerial displays he sat in the field for awhile calling "peent, peent" loudly enough to hear over my car engine. Spring magic.

Vernal conjunctions:
three planets, several woodcocks,
and me, observing.

March 20: Vernal activity

Today's the official first day of spring, the vernal equinox. (And yesterday was the official "ice out" day for Megunticook Lake.) From here on out, we enjoy more daylight than darkness. Energized by this transition (and a big mug of green tea), I sang loudly along with the car stereo this morning as I drove up the coast to a meeting. A warm spring haze softened the contours of the Camden Hills and blurred the islands out in the bay. A good morning to be alive on the coast of Maine.

Later this afternoon, when I'd opened the office window once more, I thrilled to hear the end-of-day songs of robins fill the air for the first time this year. I looked out, and the vacant, grassy lot across the street was dotted with birds hopping around, hoping for worms. They're truly back, and now we're rolling into the green season--not that I'm ruling out an unexpected snow fall or two. Yes, it's supposed to be in the 70s tomorrow, but according to Maine weather tradition, you can't rule out anything until Memorial Day. At least.

Blue islands, blue bay,
and robins singing vespers
this first day of spring.

March 19: Open window

Such a beautiful day today that by mid-afternoon I opened my office window to let in some air. I think it was warmer outside than in. Not a minute later, I heard the buzz of a fly ricocheting around the room. I guess if it's warm enough to crack open the windows, it's warm enough to need to replace the screens.

Outside the office, the resident pair of Canada geese spent the morning grazing on the lawn near the dam, and later, I saw them paddling on the completely ice-free river. A couple of fishermen stopped by on their lunch breaks to test the waters, but didn't appear to have any success.

After work while on my run I saw a woman out on her patio grilling burgers.

Despite the night's chill
I keep the window open
a few minutes more.

March 18: Into the woods

With temperatures in the 70s, a hike was in order. And apparently it was in order for everyone else in town, too, because my first choice for a hike--Bald Mountain--was over-booked, with cars spilling out of the parking lot and up the street. So I headed to one of the Ragged Mountain trailheads and happily found myself alone there. Well, with no human company, anyway, unless you count the guys training their bird dogs in a nearby field down the road.

I brought binoculars because with weird warm weather like this, I didn't know what new spring arrival I might come across. I was hoping for a phoebe or perhaps a fox sparrow. Instead, the first bird I saw was a Bohemian waxwing--a boreal breeder that often strays southward during the winter months. A small flock of seven birds hung out in the treetops near the parking area. As with the snowy owl I saw on Friday, they've been observed by many birders this winter. I just hadn't managed to come across any until today. I'm really pushing the envelope with my winter bird sightings this year. It made me feel that I was diverted to the other trail for this good reason alone: to appreciate the beauty of these winter visitors and enjoy their soft trills, even as I could also hear a brown creeper singing his sweet, clear spring song and a pileated woodpecker calling loudly from deep in the woods.

A red-tailed hawk soared over the parking area as I set off up the trail, probably one of the resident birds I see every time I come to this part of the mountain. I enjoyed a mellow walk through the awakening woods, relishing the almost-sensuous sunlight, the soft flapping of last year's clinging beech leaves, the clear, unfrozen stream, and a sense of peace among trees slowly stirring back to life. The occasional bird sang from amid still-bare branches, and I sometimes lost the path in my distraction, wandering here and there amid stands of slender trunks shining in the sunlight until I found another blue blaze.

Hiking down the trail--
everything looks different
than when I went up.

March 17: Renewal of the Run Counts

Thanks to this glorious sunshine, this morning it felt warm enough for me to go for my first outdoor run of the year. (I know many runners who run outside year-round, but I'm a real wimp when it comes to cold so would rather take advantage of my Y membership and run inside in winter.) In spring I don't like to run plugged in to my iPod; I prefer to hear birdsong. It's a way of learning what birds have returned. I keep a tally in my head of all the species I hear or see on each outing, trying to top my previous run's count. This morning's total, accumulated while running from my house to the Y (a mere two miles), was eleven:

1. goldfinch
2. tufted titmouse
3. cardinal
4. song sparrow
5. white-breasted nuthatch
6. downy woodpecker
7. Canada goose
8. house finch
9. grackle
10. crow
11. herring gull

Nothing unusual here, but this is just the beginning, just a baseline for the weeks ahead when the woods will once more resound with the renewing songs of birds, and my middle-aged body, fueled by the revitalizing vigor of the season, will push itself to run farther and farther.

My legs have more spring

as I run from bird to bird,

all of us revived.

March 16: Finally!

I've lost track of how many times I've gone to the Samoset to look for the snowy owl first reported there over a month ago. Less than a week from the vernal equinox, I'd given up hope, figuring the owl was on his way back to the Arctic by now. This winter has seen a record number of snowy owl sightings across the country, dozens in Maine alone. I've been feeling like a birding loser, unable to see a snowy owl in the one year when they're virtually everywhere. (One even showed up on Hawaii!) I could have driven three hours down to York to see the one that's spent the winter at Nubble Light, or looked for the one reportedly still lingering at a dairy farm in Clinton, but with all the owls out there, I'd really wanted to see the one closest to home (and which I came so close to seeing back in early February--see post for February 12).

When I heard from two different sources that the Samoset bird was still around, my hope returned. With a use-it-or-lose-it vacation day today, I figured this was my last chance. It's supposed to warm up significantly over the weekend, which will probably send most of our lingering winter birds northward. I headed over to the Samoset directly from a massage, figuring the relaxed frame of mind would help my quest. One person I know had seen it near the ponds, so I parked near them and walked the paved path through the golf course from there. Many geese, but no owl near the ponds. I heard my first blackbirds of the season singing from the reeds. No owl visible on the golf course. No owl visible on roof tops. I decided that at the very least I could walk along the shore bluff and count waterfowl. A song sparrow flew past. A loon drifted offshore. I looked down at the stony beach...

And there he was: a big, white snowy owl perched on a rock, impassively turning his head to look back at me. I'm a bit embarrassed to admit that I was so relieved and happy to finally see the owl that I burst into tears. I watched him for a while until, satisfied and happy, I finally decided to move on and leave the bird in peace, wishing him a safe flight back to the Arctic tundra and good luck in finding a mate and lots of lemmings to eat there.

I took the long way back to my car to see what other birds were around. Song sparrows, cardinals, and robins were all singing. A flock of grackles flew over. Pairs of ducks bobbed off the breakwater and in one of the resort's ponds. A big harbor seal perched atop one of the rocks offshore, as if beached there by the low tide. Dozens of robins hopped around the golf greens, hoping for worms. A pileated woodpecker swooped past. Clusters of pussy willows edged an alder thicket. A junco trilled from atop a tree. The very air is breathing "spring." I don't know how much longer the owl will linger now, but I am very grateful he hung out long enough.

On spring's wet threshold,
snowy owl lingers, robins
sing their merry songs.