December 10: Snow and rain

Living only a mile from the ocean, we often experience rain here while just ten miles further inland they're getting snowed on. I was reminded of that this morning when I pulled in to work, windshield wipers sweeping away the rain pouring onto my windshield. The car of my co-worker from Hope had at least an inch of snow still piled on its roof. And another co-worker from Appleton, even further inland, was hosting his six-year-old daughter in his office for a few hours because of a delayed start to the school day. We each arrived from our own little microclimates.

Remnant of snow wash away.
All day long chickadees
mob the feeders.

December 9: Ducktrap inlet

(Sorry for taking two days off while we had a house guest.)
 
Birding up and down the coast today, we stopped at Howe Point, a cobble beach jutting out into the mouth of the Ducktrap River. From the shore, we scoped the waters, finding ducks, grebes, and gulls, as an eagle soared overhead. The tide was low, exposing rocky flats--where my family used to pick mussels when I was a kid--and sandy ridges creating riffles for gulls to bathe in. As we watched birds bob in the waves, the Islesboro ferry crossed by. Somewhere in the trees behind us, a crow rattled and barked.
 
River meets bay.
Eiders bob offshore,
dive for shellfish.

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December 6: Power lines

Driving on a dark country road...

Power lines lit
by headlights: a silver web
stretching for miles.

Moon-Viewing at 50 MPH

MOON-VIEWING AT 50 MPH is the title of a new poetry collection that I recently collaborated on with former Rockland Poet Laureate Kendall Merriam. It features poems by each of us that were inspired by the moon, a muse for us both. The book was self-published through Custom Museum Publishers and is available at Gulf of Maine Books in Brunswick, Maine, Bella Books in Belfast, Maine, or from Kendall or me.

If you would like to purchase a copy from me, please send a check made out to me (Kristen Lindquist) to 12 Mount Battie St., Camden, ME 04843. (Sorry, I'm not set up to process credit cards--but Gary and Beth at Gulf of Maine Books can do that: 207-729-5083!) The book is $12.00 plus $.60 tax. If you'd like this shipped to you in state, the total cost is $17.00. Out of state, $16.00 (because you don't have to pay sales tax). I have been horrible about promoting this book, but am proud of it--it's a diverse and interesting collection of poems. Our styles are very different, but the convergences of theme and feeling interplay well.

And if you're in the neighborhood, Kendall and I will be reading from this collection and our other work at Gulf of Maine Books in Brunswick (134 Maine St.) on Sunday, December 16, 4:00 p.m. We both enjoy doing readings, and the diversity of our styles should make this a fun event, even if you don't normally attend poetry readings. Also, Gary and Beth's bookstore is a great place to do some holiday shopping!

December 5: Western warbler

This morning I went on a quest with a birder friend to a backyard in Winterport that has been hosting a western species--a Townsend's Warbler--for the past week or so. As the rain passed over and the sky began to clear above the river, we settled in with scopes, binoculars, and camera for what we thought might be a long wait. In less than ten minutes, however, the bird appeared in a tree at the back of the yard above the feeders--a distance away, but his bright yellow and black facial pattern and sides made him easy to spot and identify. He paused at the feeder, then flew off. Later, we got another look as he foraged in some closer trees. And not long after, my friend was able to get some nice, close photographs as the bird ate mealworms on the porch, sucking them in the long way like tiny strands of spaghetti.

This sighting is only the fourth Maine record for this species; my "lifer" record of this warbler was in Oak Creek Canyon, Arizona, in a stream-side coniferous forest during spring migration, and the bird breeds well northwest of that. It's all fun and games to go chasing an errant bird like this, but once you see the individual, its personal story comes to the forefront of your thoughts: How did this guy end up here? What was his journey? Will he ever make it back west where he belongs?

Rainy Maine morning.
Bright yellow feathers
belong in California pines.

December 4: Pressed tin

Dinner out tonight with my husband and a friend at a restaurant in Rockport in a lovely, renovated old space with a painted, pressed tin ceiling.

Remembering Nana's kitchen:
pressed tin ceiling,
sugar cookies cooling.

December 3: Septentrional

I subscribe to wordsmith.org's Word.A.Day, which I highly recommend to anyone fascinated by words and language. As a linguistics minor in college (and a writer), I admit I'm kind of a word nerd, so am always delighted when each day's new word appears in my email In box. This week's theme is "words derived from numbers." Today's word--septentrional, which means "northern"--particularly struck me because it's not only unusual, it's also related to one of my favorite constellations, the Big Dipper.

Here's the etymology, according to Word.A.Day: "From Latin septentriones, literally the seven ploughing oxen, a name for the seven stars of the Great Bear constellation that appears in the northern sky. From Latin septem (seven) + triones (ploughing oxen). Earliest documented use: around 1400."

The Big Dipper goes by many names around the world: Ursa Major, the Great Bear; Charles' Wain or Wagon; the Plough; the Drinking Gourd; the Seven Wisemen; the Frying Pan; even the Salmon Net. As a circumpolar constellation, it wheels around Polaris, the North Star. To find the North Star, you trace a line in the sky up through the two stars that form the right side of the ladle. So its meaning of "northern" makes perfect sense, even while the backstory involving seven oxen might be a little less clear, lost in translation over time.

Seven stars, many stories.
We face north, align
with the heavens.

December 2: Winter mist

Warmer air moving in blanketed the chilled December landscape with fog. Trees looming in the mist: a backdrop for a drowsy day, especially after staying up too late socializing with friends last night. Perfect setting for a nap with the football game on, a dog warming my feet. Then the slow drive back home, following taillights through the fog.

Christmas lights in fog.
The day's a shifting dream,
blurred around the edges.

December 1: A-tap-tap-tapping

Sometimes I think that I could just post every day about what the crows are up to. They're a fascinating--if enigmatic--study. And as I wrote yesterday, they're always there. Like right now, a crow across the river's tapping at something. Is it trying to break something open, perhaps an acorn from one of the surrounding oaks? Is it trying to pry something out of the frozen ground? Is it eating something off a tablecloth of dead leaves? Is it playing percussion in some crow performance? I'll never know, but I'm sitting here with my mug of chai, watching, absorbed.

One crow, now two, peck
at the ice-fringed riverbank.
A few snowflakes fall.

November 30: Crows up close

Along with the chickadees and titmice at my window feeders, crows are the most common, daily visitor to my office, in any season or weather. Today I was startled to look up from my computer and see half a dozen crows flush from right under my office window into a nearby birch. They must have been picking through the bird seed under my feeders. Or perhaps one of them saw a mouse picking through the bird seed cast-offs, as happens on occasion. The six of them sat there as if regrouping for their next great plan, undoubtedly hatching some clever, mischievous plot.

Later, as I was walking from the kitchen back to my office with a cup of tea, I saw a single crow sitting in a bush just ten feet from the window ahead of me. Right there. Looking in. Shades of Poe's Raven. It saw my movement and flew off, but I could swear it was checking us out.

Do I keep track of
the crows' comings and goings,
or do they watch me?

November 29: Snow and star

Driving home tonight as the snow was falling--gently but thoroughly--the lighted Santas on people's front lawns remained bright, but the lighted star on the tower atop Mount Battie was just a hazy blur.

Behind snow's swirl--
a full moon brighter
than holiday lights.