January 12: Scent of the sea

Walking toward the entrance to the gym this morning, I took a deep breath--the damp, unseasonably warm air held that salt scent of the sea. Camden's a harbor town, but sometimes you can forget if the water's not right in front of you. But today's air circulation pattern was carrying that moist ocean air right into the YMCA parking lot, along with the cries of nearby gulls. For a few seconds, an image of waves lapping rockweed-bedecked stones flashed through my head. Then I stepped inside.

Sea air in my lungs,
I'm ionized
for my indoor run.

January 11: Green

Maybe it's being surrounded all day long by the snow and bare branches, maybe I need more vegetables in my diet, but whatever the reason, I've been craving particular shades of green lately. Friends in Georgia reported seeing a female Painted Bunting, which, unlike the gaudy male, sports a range of plumage tending to lime green. I felt such envy and longing upon hearing about it.

Female Painted Bunting. Photo by Dan Pancamo, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Thinking about female Painted Buntings reminded me of how much I like Chestnut-sided Warblers in fall plumage. Normally very bright birds, with a chestnut streak on the flank, a black-and-white facial pattern, and a gold crown, in fall they're a much more subtle but very distinctive shade of green:

Chestnut-sided Warbler by Louis Agassiz Fuertes, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons. From bottom to top: fall adult; first year male; spring male.

Then this afternoon a friend birding in Mexico shared a photograph of a Slaty Vireo, a bird I now would love to see in real life. This painting doesn't do justice to the beautiful contrast of the green and gray plumage:

Slaty Vireo, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

My eyes must crave citrus and lime. Alas, there are no budding spring leaves unfurling anywhere nearby, no female buntings kicking around. So, short of wearing my favorite green sweater, I think the best I can do to satisfy this need is to either make myself a cocktail with a lime garnish or start planning our trip to Florida in March. Or both.

Only January
and already my eyes seek
the greens of spring.

January 10: Crows in the pines

Sitting in a meeting late afternoon, I sensed a shadow passing by an office window near me that looks out onto a small wooded park. Subtly turning my head, I realized that the shadow was a crow flying into a tall pine. Followed by another crow, and another. A group of crows--a family? a small winter flock?--was heading for the shelter of the boughs to roost for the night.

I was reminded of a section of Wallace Stevens' poem "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird":

VI 
Icicles filled the long window 
With barbaric glass. 
The shadow of the blackbird 
Crossed it, to and fro. 
The mood 
Traced in the shadow 
An indecipherable cause.


Shadow of a crow.
My mood shifts
with my attention.

January 9: Rainy night

Church clock's lit face
a dim substitute
for the cloud-shrouded moon.

January 8: Landslide

Many years, even decades, ago, there was a landslide up on the north end of the Mount Megunticook ridge line. I don't remember it happening, but growing up it was always very noticeable from a distance: it left a long stony scar down the upper slope. Over the years the slide's path has been slowly filling in as trees have grown in around it, so the visual impact has lessened. But I noticed today that the old scar is more visible right now while it's covered in snow and the trees are bare of leaves.

Landslide highlighted by snow.
Even old scars
still remind us of loss.

January 7: Illumination

Another Monday back in the office, with another week ahead of numbers to juggle, memos to write, meetings to coordinate. The cold feels like it's settled into my bones, rendering me bleak and partly cloudy myself. But as I was driving back from an errand, snowy Mount Battie rose up ahead of me, its radiant presence glowing in the late afternoon sun with an almost ethereal light.

Confronted by such beauty,
the spirit rallies.
At least until darkness.

January 6: Beach

Out birding with a friend along the coast south of Portland. The morning began with snow showers, but most of the day was graced with blue sky and the glare of sun on the water. At Dyer Point in Cape Elizabeth, where long lines of rocks stretch into the sea, we watched colorful Harlequin Ducks bob in the surf and Purple Sandpipers crowd onto rockweed-adorned ledges exposed by the tide. At Two Lights State Park, more ducks, some Razorbills, a kittiwake flying off in the distant shimmer.

At Higgins Beach the ebbing tide revealed a long sandy beach. Some dogs romped after a ball, and a man tried to launch a big yellow box kite into the sea breeze. As my friend scanned the waves for birds, I had the sudden impulse to walk on the sand all the way out to the water's edge. I was reminded how last year about this time I experienced such calm joy walking the warm sands of a beach on Florida's Atlantic coast, past fishermen, surfers, and standing flocks of terns. For a few minutes today, even in Maine's chilly sunlight, I felt that same happy peace.

Expanse of sand and sea--
the mind opens
to let in peace.

January 5: Flow

Mesmerized by the play of blue shadows, shadows of trees swaying in the chill wind, over the unmarred snow in the backyard...

Shadows sway on snow,
echo river's currents.
Change is a constant.

January 4: Red-bellied Woodpecker

This morning when I got to work, the trees were birdy. A small flock of juncos flitted and twittered near my car, the usual feeder birds were queuing up in the bushes, one nuthatch spiraled head-first down a birch trunk, and a pair of jays watched with bright eyes. From inside my office I watched with binoculars, hoping to see something interesting turn up--more redpolls, perhaps, or an errant sparrow.

As I stood there in the center of the room, one of the jays landed in a feeder. Usually I shoo them off because they're too big for the feeders, and they eat too much. But I hadn't seen a jay here for awhile, so decided to let it eat in peace. Their blue plumage (which isn't really blue, but that's another story) looks so pretty in contrast with the white snow.

Soon the second jay passed overhead, moving from a nearby tree to the edge of the roof over my feeders. But instead of another jay at a feeder, a Red-Bellied Woodpecker suddenly appeared.

Red-bellied Woodpecker (male). Photo by Ken Thomas via Wikimedia Commons.

He stayed eating bird seed not only long enough for me to yell to my co-workers to come see but also for them to actually watch him for a few seconds. Then he flew off into the trees, moving upriver. He didn't return, but it's good to know there's still one in the neighborhood. This southern species has made an amazing incursion into Maine in the past eight to ten years or so. Before that, to see one here at all was unusual. Now they're hanging out through the winter, popping up in my own yard, their chirring call becoming so familiar that a couple nights ago I dreamed I heard one.

Should I expect all my dreams
to become as real
as this visiting woodpecker?

January 3: Cold

My car thermometer read 4 degrees F when I left for an early morning meeting. I think it got up to 10 at its peak.

We move fast to stay warm,
our breathing visible,
our thoughts hidden.

January 2: Flash Mob

While on the phone at my office this afternoon, I took a sudden, momentary break in my conversation so I could yell to my co-workers to come quick and look out the window. The trees outside our office were suddenly filled with crows! At least a hundred of them, just hanging out in the branches, cawing, shifting from branch to branch, tree to tree, as more flew in from all directions, some of them standing around together in the road. They weren't mobbing anything, didn't appear to have any purpose; they were just there.

And then they were gone.

About ten minutes later I looked out as they flew back over the office, all those black silhouettes against a blue sky, the whole swirling flock flapping away over Mount Battie and beyond, undoubtedly en route to an evening roost. I ran outside to try to catch a photo but was too late.

Visited by crows.
After, the rest of the day
felt somehow different.