each night Venus grows brighter,
Mars diminishes.
Showing posts with label Mars. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mars. Show all posts
Saturday, February 4, 2017
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Friday, August 26, 2016
Friday, July 29, 2016
Tuesday, May 31, 2016
Wednesday, January 20, 2016
Saturday, October 24, 2015
October 24: Closer
Venus, Jupiter, and Mars move ever closer together in the pre-dawn hours. This morning, right out my front door, so bright, I wanted to keep staring and staring until they dimmed with the sunrise.
Above: three planets.
Below: wild turkeys feeding
in a misty field.
Wednesday, October 14, 2015
Sunday, July 6, 2014
July 4 - 6: In the North Woods
Another travelogue:
My husband Paul and I headed up to the North Woods for the long holiday weekend, staying two nights at the Appalachian Mountain Club's Gorman Chairbank Lodge and Cabins. This was hardly roughing it: our log cabin featured a comfy bed and wood stove, and we were served sumptuous, family-style meals (and drinks) in the main lodge, which also housed a sitting area/library and bright, clean bathrooms with hot showers--all running off-the-grid. We were grateful for this comfort, as it made the wet weather bearable.
The theme of the weekend seemed to be WATER. We drove up on the Fourth of July, saw a cow moose feeding in a pond on the way. Ate lunch in Greenville while watching rain fall on Moosehead Lake from inside a restaurant with a leaking roof. Then we hit the muddy dirt roads and drove east into the woods to the camp. Once there, Paul fished off the dock for a while. That night, we listened to the syncopation of raindrops on the metal roof of our cabin while loons called from the pond.
Saturday we'd intended to hike into Gulf Hagas, "the Grand Canyon of the East," via the Hermitage, a stand of very old white pines along the Appalachian Trail, just across the West Branch of the Pleasant River and below the gorge itself. Thanks to the continuing rain, however, that trail, which requires one to ford the swollen river, was closed. The AMC rangers didn't want anyone washing away downriver. So we hiked in the rain to the Head of the Gulf (the "start" of Gulf Hagas) via a longer, very saturated, slick trail. It was worth it. The rain eventually stopped and the drama of Gulf Hagas could be fully appreciated, as it was running full and high, serious whitewater. We slipped and slid our way along the rim past three different sets of falls (Stair, Billings, Buttermilk; didn't quite make it to The Jaws), then sloshed back up the trail across (and through) many pretty, gushing feeder streams, including a few streams that disappeared into holes in the ground to resurface a few yards downhill.
Rain spatters on leaves,
Buttermilk Falls churns--
we barely hear the wren.
Delicate things persist
amid the torrents:
ferns, lichens, bird song.
Undeterred by rain, us,
thrushes share wild flutesongs
across the wet trail.
Wild strawberries
at trail's end--
slugs found them too.
Last night the sky cleared over the pond just before sunset, touching the treetops with rich golden light. We indulged in hot showers and cranked up the wood stove, before enjoying a big turkey dinner in the Lodge. Before bed, Paul fly-fished in a nearby beaver flowage. Stars shone. High above the pond, the half moon danced closely with Mars and Saturn. Loons called across the pond. Life was good.
Today the river was still running too high for us to attempt a crossing to the Hermitage. So instead we hiked up Laurie's Ledge Trail to a viewpoint from which we could see spruce-topped mountains unfold all the way to Katahdin. Toads and frogs hopped along the still-wet trail, and thrushes and warblers sang amid the dense, leafy forest. We checked out nearby Little Lyford Lodge and Cabins, another AMC camp, then headed out of the woods. In Greenville, before we turned south for home, we enjoyed an excellent lobster crepe at a food truck, Cafe Crepe (which we were happy to learn is also in Freeport). All good adventures should end thus, with an excellent meal.
Garter snake suns
on our cabin step--
a simple valediction.
From atop a log
toad's golden eyes, staring.
So that's his magic...
Lunch on Moosehead Lake.
Next table, float plane pilot
sets up new charters.
My husband Paul and I headed up to the North Woods for the long holiday weekend, staying two nights at the Appalachian Mountain Club's Gorman Chairbank Lodge and Cabins. This was hardly roughing it: our log cabin featured a comfy bed and wood stove, and we were served sumptuous, family-style meals (and drinks) in the main lodge, which also housed a sitting area/library and bright, clean bathrooms with hot showers--all running off-the-grid. We were grateful for this comfort, as it made the wet weather bearable.
The theme of the weekend seemed to be WATER. We drove up on the Fourth of July, saw a cow moose feeding in a pond on the way. Ate lunch in Greenville while watching rain fall on Moosehead Lake from inside a restaurant with a leaking roof. Then we hit the muddy dirt roads and drove east into the woods to the camp. Once there, Paul fished off the dock for a while. That night, we listened to the syncopation of raindrops on the metal roof of our cabin while loons called from the pond.
Raindrops and fish rises
pockmark the water.
Across the pond, wren sings.
Even in heavy rain
fireflies flash
under the dark pines.
Buttermilk Falls churns--
we barely hear the wren.
Delicate things persist
amid the torrents:
ferns, lichens, bird song.
Undeterred by rain, us,
thrushes share wild flutesongs
across the wet trail.
Wild strawberries
at trail's end--
slugs found them too.
Last night the sky cleared over the pond just before sunset, touching the treetops with rich golden light. We indulged in hot showers and cranked up the wood stove, before enjoying a big turkey dinner in the Lodge. Before bed, Paul fly-fished in a nearby beaver flowage. Stars shone. High above the pond, the half moon danced closely with Mars and Saturn. Loons called across the pond. Life was good.
Today the river was still running too high for us to attempt a crossing to the Hermitage. So instead we hiked up Laurie's Ledge Trail to a viewpoint from which we could see spruce-topped mountains unfold all the way to Katahdin. Toads and frogs hopped along the still-wet trail, and thrushes and warblers sang amid the dense, leafy forest. We checked out nearby Little Lyford Lodge and Cabins, another AMC camp, then headed out of the woods. In Greenville, before we turned south for home, we enjoyed an excellent lobster crepe at a food truck, Cafe Crepe (which we were happy to learn is also in Freeport). All good adventures should end thus, with an excellent meal.
 |
| Backpackers bolder than us fording the waist-deep currents of the West Branch of the Pleasant River under the close eye of the AMC ranger one full day after the rain stopped. |
on our cabin step--
a simple valediction.
From atop a log
toad's golden eyes, staring.
So that's his magic...
Lunch on Moosehead Lake.
Next table, float plane pilot
sets up new charters.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
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.
Vernal conjunctions:
three planets, several woodcocks,
and me, observing.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
February 9: Leaves in Buddha's Lap
As I left work tonight, enough of a glow remained in the sky that I didn't need a flashlight to find my car. Yet it was dark enough that I could clearly see the two brightest heavenly bodies in the sky--Mars and Sirius--bracketing Mount Battie. (The waning moon had not yet risen.) They were my celestial escorts as I headed into town on my way to the Y. When I got there, I realized I'd forgotten to bring my running stuff. I took that as a sign that I wasn't meant to run tonight and turned around to head home for an unexpectedly free hour. Back between the Red Planet and the Dog Star I went, my mind still churning on work.
As I walked up the front step of my home, a nearby streetlight illuminated the statue of Buddha in my flower bed. He's been buried under snow most of the winter. While the mid-Atlantic states have been getting dumped on the past week or so, our snow has been disappearing, sublimating into the sublime blue skies of these sunny days. So there was Buddha, half-heaped in snowy dead leaves. I thought about clearing away the detritus but decided to let it be. His mildly amused expression caught by the light, Buddha looked completely at peace sitting there with that lapful of dead leaves and ice.
Leaving Buddha, the war god, and the twinkling dog star behind me, I unlocked my front door and suddenly felt a complete sense of calm. Some things ease our minds by drawing us outside ourselves--calling our attention to the infinite reaches of the night sky, for example. Others help us empty the mind and think less: be here now; shut down busy thoughts by briefly meditating on an object of beauty. And then open the door and cross the threshold into the next moment.
Leaves in Buddha's lap--
dry offerings of winter.
Remember: life's short.
As I walked up the front step of my home, a nearby streetlight illuminated the statue of Buddha in my flower bed. He's been buried under snow most of the winter. While the mid-Atlantic states have been getting dumped on the past week or so, our snow has been disappearing, sublimating into the sublime blue skies of these sunny days. So there was Buddha, half-heaped in snowy dead leaves. I thought about clearing away the detritus but decided to let it be. His mildly amused expression caught by the light, Buddha looked completely at peace sitting there with that lapful of dead leaves and ice.Leaving Buddha, the war god, and the twinkling dog star behind me, I unlocked my front door and suddenly felt a complete sense of calm. Some things ease our minds by drawing us outside ourselves--calling our attention to the infinite reaches of the night sky, for example. Others help us empty the mind and think less: be here now; shut down busy thoughts by briefly meditating on an object of beauty. And then open the door and cross the threshold into the next moment.
Leaves in Buddha's lap--
dry offerings of winter.
Remember: life's short.
Friday, January 29, 2010
January 29: The Moon and Mars
Although the moon isn't quite full, it's a breath-taking spectacle rising tonight, big white beaming face peeking over the craggy edge of Mount Battie. Earlier I had learned that the moon and Mars were in conjunction--very close to each other--and that apparently this was the closest we'd be to Mars all year. So after dark I drove into town so I could see them shining above the harbor. As I drove past the mountain, the moon shone against a clear, cold backdrop of deep blue sky, framed by the lacing silhouettes of tree branches, Orion tilted sideways above. And just to the left, Mars, a small, red, unblinking eye. From our perspective, of course, the moon is the largest planet we see, but here on Earth we've often judged wrongly our place in the solar system, let alone the universe.
It's hard to avoid the symbolism of Mars as the god of war. We're a country at war, though we tend to forget that sometimes. In that regard, too, it's all a matter of perspective. From my comfortable life here in coastal Maine, I have the luxury to gaze upon the faces of Mars and Moon, to write a little poem. Elsewhere, I know, it's not like this, and to many, the moon right now must seem like an unresponsive god, bright and full while so much pain and grief and hunger exists around them.
Full moon outshines Mars.
Ignoring distant beauty,
here below--war, grief.
It's hard to avoid the symbolism of Mars as the god of war. We're a country at war, though we tend to forget that sometimes. In that regard, too, it's all a matter of perspective. From my comfortable life here in coastal Maine, I have the luxury to gaze upon the faces of Mars and Moon, to write a little poem. Elsewhere, I know, it's not like this, and to many, the moon right now must seem like an unresponsive god, bright and full while so much pain and grief and hunger exists around them.
Full moon outshines Mars.
Ignoring distant beauty,
here below--war, grief.
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