April 18: Keeping it going

Most days I enjoy
writing the haiku more than
writing the intro.

April 17: What I saw on my run

Megunticook River running low, baring lots of rocks; my first yellow-bellied sapsucker of the spring pecking on a pine tree; small pink magnolia bush in full bloom; a lawn full of daffodils; flock of waxwings in an apple tree; several brush piles waiting to be burned; one other runner, moving much more easily than I; a very nicely renovated back porch; fat robins hopping on the green grass; hikers climbing on the exposed rocks on Mount Battie; black cat hanging out on a log above a stream in the woods; crow flying with something large and orange in its bill; a rhododendron just starting to bud; alder wetland full of singing peepers; flock of maybe a dozen free-range chickens scattered all over a front yard; a guy smashing something on his ATV really loudly; truck for sale: 1998 but only 62K miles, runs great; a bank of forsythia bushes in full neon-yellow bloom; and this, on the pocket-sized lawn of our neighbor's trailer, nestled between two bushy pine trees:

Four white plastic chairs,
hibachi in the middle,
two tiki torches.

Some people have the gift of being able to make a party anywhere.

April 16: Gone Fishing

I came home tonight to an empty house. I didn't expect it to be empty; my husband's car was out front as usual. In fact, I came in the door talking to him, was in mid-sentence before I realized that the only one there to greet me was the cat. Maybe he walked to the store, I thought. He wasn't feeling well today, maybe he wanted some comfort food? Then I saw his note: he'd gone out back to get in some fishing. The guy can't talk because his throat is so sore, but he's down on the river right now on this chilly evening casting a line. For some reason that makes me really happy, despite my concerns for his health. Until yesterday, when our niece compelled him to take her fishing, this guy--who in the past has always had a line in on the water on April 1--hadn't yet made the time to go fishing this spring. Now, hopefully he'll get back in the groove of spending that half-hour or so by himself at the end of each busy day, unwinding down on the river with his rod and flies.

Fisherman alone
with his thoughts, casting them free
into the river.

April 15: Cat's view

Beautiful sunny day here, unseasonably warm, the kind of weather that--along with the neighbor's guitar-playing out on his porch--just beckons one outside. I tried to spend a good chunk of time out in the sun, raking off some garden beds and planting a few hardy flowers, wandering barefoot around the mossy lawn, and dragging my mat out to the bright back porch for my daily exercises. And when I got into the car to run some errands, I indulged in another one of my favorite summer Sunday pastimes: listening to the Red Sox game on the radio.

One of the day's entertainments has been watching the crows. Throughout the day the local gang has been following and haranguing the newly-returned osprey. The osprey seems fond of this stretch of the river, flying back and forth low over the water, sometimes perching in one of the big trees in our back yard. I can tell by the tone of the crows' caws when they're on the job. At one point, a crow was barking its "alarm call" over and over right right behind our house. I held the cat up to the window so she could see the crow, but she didn't seem all that interested despite the bird's proximity and loudness. What she was attracted to was a flurry of motion in the dead leaves on the opposite bank of the river: two courting squirrels circling tree trunks in a hormonal frenzy. She may not be attuned to crow calls like our former cat was, but she certainly has good eyesight.

As I've been typing this out on the back step, the crows have been shifting places from tree to tree to keep a close eye on the osprey, which just flew back up river and is perched in one of the neighbors' maples. For the moment they're not yelling. One crow plucks at a twig and makes weird rattling noises; another just perched on the tree closest to me and sits there looking in my direction. "Yes, I'm writing about you," I tell it. A third is splashing around in the river taking a bath. Now it too has flown up to a nearby tree, shaking and ruffling its wet feathers. Apparently they've called a temporary truce with the osprey.

Who can ignore crows?
Yet Cat would rather swat at
flies, stare at squirrels.

April 14: Child's play

My nieces, age 2-1/2 and 5-1/2, are visiting this weekend, and today was "Niece Day" for me. I'm not quite up to taking on both of them together for the entire day, so I spent the first half with the younger child, Nola. Our time together, the first she's ever spent completely alone with me, included such simple pleasures as getting purple unicorn sugar cookies for a snack and hiking up Beech Hill. On the way up we discussed blueberries, hurricanes, Alvin and the Chipmunks, building sand castles, and other important matters, pausing often to "rest"--i.e. sit in the trail side grass and toss pebbles at things. She filled her pocket with random bits of gravel she deemed "treasure." During one of our rest stops, a harrier flew over our heads, close enough that even Nola could appreciate it. She also appreciated Beech Nut, the stone hut at the summit that my sisters and I were taken to by our mother starting about when we were Nola's age. Nola imagined the stone-walled rooms inside as good places for Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty to live. Then I gave her a piggy-back ride back down the hill.

After a good healthy lunch of pizza and another cookie, I dropped off Nola and picked up the older niece, Fiona. It was Fiona's idea to go fishing with Uncle Paul so she could watch him and be his fishing helper. So we clambered down to the river and Paul's favorite fishing spot, where he cast a line without much hope because the water level's so low right now. But, surprisingly, he hooked a fish in no time, and Fiona reeled it in--a small, pretty brook trout; her first fish! As this was going on, an osprey flew overhead and perched nearby, perhaps hoping that it could get it on the action after we released the trout. Paul let Fiona pick out the next fly, and though he was skeptical of her choice, she was quickly reeling in her second fish, a little smallmouth bass. Already her lifetime fishing record tops mine.

Later, after more adventures at home and an early dinner at the Waterfront (the usual for Fiona: plain pasta, hot fudge sundae), we walked along the Harbor Park sea wall and were thrilled to see a river otter hanging out in the harbor. Several times it poked its head out of the water to look right at us. It was Fiona's first otter, an event made even more significant by the fact that her last name is van Otterloo, so the family has a strong affinity for otters.

While I'm thoroughly exhausted now, I'm grateful for this day of many small excitements made even better by their being shared with my two favorite little girls.

Young or old, we all
appreciate hawks, otter,
spring's first-caught brookie.

April 13: Basking seal

While enjoying lunch at the Waterfront Restaurant on Camden harbor today, I noticed several patrons and a few of the waitstaff craning their necks to see something out the window. Apparently a seal was out on one of the floats in the inner harbor. I had to see it for myself, of course, and there it was--a big fat, patchy seal stretched out atop the float in presumed bliss in the bright sun. While I don't ascribe to the notion that animals don't possess emotions, I try not to project my own emotions onto them. However, there's no way that wasn't one relaxed and happy seal.

Seal basking on dock--
to achieve such calm I too
should sprawl in the sun.

April 11: Wildlife at the dump

The fitness center at our local YMCA has big windows that look out onto interesting views of the local dump. Stay with me, here. I'm not entirely joking. One window faces a big ugly metal building, but in the background, craggy Mount Battie rises dramatically amid the Camden Hills. The sky is often an important presence in this scene, as well. Some evenings the window frames a spectacular moonrise. This afternoon a bank of shining white-topped cumulus clouds lurked on the horizon. This particular window is along the track, in an otherwise inaccessible corner of the gym; the prospect of another glimpse of a cool-looking sky is sometimes the main incentive for me to run one more lap.

Other windows, placed so gym-goers can enjoy a view from the weight machines, face the back of the building. There's a patch of woods through which deer sometimes pass. And there's more of the dump, a section that includes an area of grassed-over land fill marred by piles of demolition debris. A couple of nights ago, as my husband and I were walking together on the track, we noticed a crow dive-bombing a hawk in a tree at the dump's fringe. This evening, on yet another round of the track, we noticed a flock of turkeys out there. On each circuit, we tried to pay attention to them. At one point, a big tom was fanning his tail and strutting through a group of apparently unimpressed hens. Another couple using the weight machines had also noticed them, with seeming delight.

Beauty's not the thing--
habitat is habitat.
The turkeys don't care.

April 10: Not snow

On Sunday we watched actual snow flakes falling. This evening it just looks like it's snowing: a mass of white insects has hatched in the back yard. A swirling swarm of them fills the air space between the house and river. As the last rays of the sun send a column of light through the yard, illuminating the flies, the sheer magnitude of the hatch becomes visible. Shifting my focus, I realize the little gnats are also stuck all over my screen window. They're almost tiny enough--my husband estimates them to be about a #26 fly--to fit through the holes in the screen.

It's too chilly to be hanging out in the back yard anyway, so I can enjoy the sheer visual marvel of this insect flash mob, as well as appreciate the return of non-biting insects in numbers sufficient to feed returning songbirds and trout down in the river. The phoebe singing outside my office window this morning, for example, will be grateful for this flying feast.

Flies swirling like snow
after all snow has melted--
air's never empty.

April 9: Blossoming blueberries!

That almost sounds like something Captain Haddock from the Tin Tin series would say, in lieu of his usual, "Billions of bilious blue blistering barnacles!" The often-tipsy Captain Haddock would at least appreciate that I've been forcing a blueberry sprig this spring in an old tequila bottle vase, even if he might not notice the subtle beauty of the little white bells of its blossoms.

Several weeks ago I snapped a dry and bare twig from a patch of blueberry bushes alongside a trail on Ragged Mountain. For a long time, nothing seemed to happen. But slowly the twig has leafed out and is now flowering. Such a tiny, wondrous thing right here in my kitchen, while outside the plants still awaken from their long winter's nap.

We call it "forcing,"
but these blueberry flowers
open with such grace.

April 8: Easter nests

Earlier today we watched a few lazy snowflakes drift over the backyard. No egg hunts for us on this raw Sunday. The cat batted a felt egg around the living room, while golfers swatted golf balls around the Masters course in Augusta, Georgia on t.v. Here, we were serenaded by a cardinal and a chaotic chorus of goldfinches. In Augusta, Carolina wrens, mockingbirds, and at least one bluebird provided background music to the golfers. Later, we enjoyed Easter buffet with my parents at the Samoset's La Bella Vita restaurant, happily stuffing ourselves at an ocean view table with two gulls staring in at us (or more accurately, at our food).

Signs of spring are becoming more and more apparent despite the lingering chill and today's brief snow, but what struck me as we drove home from the Samoset was how many of last year's bird nests are yet visible among the still-bare branches. One yard had two nests tucked in two different trees: four nests in one small front lawn. My eyes began to pick out one after another in the trees (along with a few squirrel dreys). Songbirds don't re-use their nests like eagles or ospreys, so these truly are homes of seasons past. But in just another month or so, these trees will be leafed out, and nest-building will begin anew...

Holiday of eggs--
in the bare branches we spy
last year's nests, empty.

April 7: Neurotic cat

Our cat was a stray before we adopted her, so we have no idea what her past history is except that she's spayed and de-clawed. And someone at some point taught her that snapping fingers mean "get off the kitchen counters!" She has her little feline neuroses, some undoubtedly resulting from her having been a starving stray last winter. She's obsessive about her food, meowing insistently if anyone goes remotely near her dish, even though she's now a normal weight and has been on the same feeding regimen for three months. And she has a spot on her right hind leg, perhaps the site of an old injury, that she licks repeatedly. My husband and I joke that we've taught her one trick; when she curls up next to us, one of us will say, "Flop down and lick your leg." And she does. It seems to be her method of relaxing--suddenly collapsing alongside one of us and licking that darn leg. But it apparently soothes her.

It may drive us nuts,
but who are we to judge what
brings calm to others?