October 4: Geese overhead

Here on the river we often see or hear Canada geese, which nest nearby, but this time of year their calls as they fly overhead seem particularly poignant. They aren't actually leaving us--large flocks of geese hang out through most of the winter on nearby farm fields and golf courses. But there's nonetheless something emotionally resonant about the sound that makes me run to a window to try to catch sight of those large birds winging their way across the bleak fall sky, rambling on their minds.

White sky
filled with calls of geese
flying out of sight.

October 3: Window strike

Despite my best efforts with string and ultraviolet window stickers, something about our office windows, especially in the fall, seems to draw birds in. I hear that sickening thud of a small body hitting a window and then hold my breath as I rush over to see if there's a bird on the ground or not. Today's window strike appeared to be a goldfinch, which fortunately survived. I've held other birds in my hands, tiny little feathered bodies with rapid heartbeats, until they could perch and ultimately fly away, or until they died.

That feeling when
the bird that struck the window
flies away--

October 2: Sparrow

Walking into my office this afternoon, I was inordinately pleased to hear the call note of a white-throated sparrow from the bushes that border the lawn. For one brief moment I stepped out of work mode and was back on Monhegan, surrounded by the calls of migrating birds... including many white-throated sparrows.

Such power in the chip
of a sparrow,
to summon memory.

October 1: Maple

Autumn makes its arrival felt, touching trees here and there with color. The maple outside my office window was particularly dazzling this afternoon after the skies cleared and the setting sun backlit the reddening leaves.

Epiphany of fall--

this burning tree,

this sinking sun.

September 30: Full moon

Rain kept the full moon hidden last night but I felt its influence, a restlessness that kept me awake much too late. I feel a nap coming on this rainy day after.
 
Invisible full moon
still tugs on
our bodies of water.

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September 29: Leaving the island

How will I sleep now
without the lulling rhythm
of the waves?

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September 28: Night flight

An ornithologist friend showed us videos he made last night of the waxing moon and the silhouettes of birds moving across its face. You could also hear recognizable flight calls from some of the birds.
 
Even the birds
want to be out
in this moonlight.

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September 27: Send off

Someone special was leaving the island, so a chorus of island residents and friends gathered at the wharf to sing her on her way and give her the little bouquets of flowers which tradition dictates must be tossed overboard to ensure you'll return. We too had friends leaving, so it was a jolly parting.

 
Floating petals.
I wave long after
anyone can see me.
 
 
 

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September 19 - September 26: Monhegan escape

I'm on a remote island off the coast of Maine for the fall bird migration, an annual pilgrimage I make in September that's as much about meeting up with old friends and enjoying this beautiful place as it is about the birds. Internet connection and time to write are both intermittent, so here's a set of haiku I've jotted down throughout my stay here thus far:
 

Waves crash all night.
I think of a friend
now lost.
 

Butterfly bush:
yet still surprised to see
so many butterflies.
 
Between broken bottle
and sea glass:
months of wave action.
 
Moonlight
brightening lace curtains
the only light.
 

Crickets loud,
but the surf
is all I hear.
 
Rain falls from the eaves.
The morning
ticks away.
 

Waxwings in viburnum--
to find such
satisfaction.
 
Every yard
harbors a gull or two,
some lame.
 
The key is
to follow
the chickadees.
 
Nuthatch chorus
rings out
in Cathedral Woods.

 
Looking for a spot to pee
I find the hidden patch
of fringed gentians.
 
Thankful the kitten
was only playing
with a rock.

 

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September 18: Harvest

At a friend's farm: tomato vines laden with reddening globes, tight corn cobs sprouting tassles, peppers painted red and green by ripening, pumpkins swelling on the vines, here and there bodies of butternut squashes tan mounds upon the ground, young chickens pecking Japanese beetles in the sunlit yard, a woodpecker spiraling the trunk of the dying pine struck by lightning, and a broad-winged hawk silently passing over the chickadee on the branch...

Garden pregnant
with rounded bodies of squash.
Ripening: sun passing overhead.

September 17: Finch mob

My feeders have been mobbed this weekend by finches, mostly goldfinches and young house finches just beginning to grow in some pink feathers. Working outside I constantly hear their calls--high-pitched, two-note little songs. Even when I can't see them, their voices in the trees give them away, a group of children playing together happily in the next room.
 
Finches' singsong chatter,
sunny morning.
I hum myself.

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