April 14: Sleet

Slow drive in sleet.

If birds, he’d be a swift,

I’d be a waxwing.

April 15: Bird in the kitchen

open kitchen window
briefly trapped chickadee
outside, sound of singing

January 7: Distractions come easy when you're trying to write

Distracted by a flock of birds,

then by falling snow.

Trying to write.

Posted with Blogsy

May 12: In the window

Stained glass birds spinning

on one side, goldfinch feeding

on the other.

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April 15: Asia in Amsterdam

Got a private tour this morning of the wonderful "Asia in Amsterdam" show at the Peabody Essex Museum in Salem. Saw some exquisite works of art, including textiles, books, paintings, ceramics, and decorative housewares, that reflected, in part, the influence of Asian arts and culture on the Netherlands during its Golden Age in the 17th century.

 

Four centuries later

Persian birds still vivid--

I want to touch them.

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February 9: Garden of Earthly Delights

A new interactive website allows you to take a virtual tour of Dutch artist Hieronymus Bosch's famous painting "The Garden of Earthly Delights." A trip through his fantastical triptych is a "trip" indeed, especially when you can look at it this closely.

In Bosch's "Garden"
I'm distracted by the birds
but only briefly.

September 16: Early morning, sound of feathers

I hear wings flapping

but fall back asleep

too tired yet for the divine.

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September 25: And sunrise

Monhegan sunrise--

the day begins with beauty

and small birds flying.

 

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August 23: In the backyard

To preserve the health of both our cat and the surrounding bird life, our cat is only allowed outside for brief supervised forays of the backyard while wearing a harness and leash. We both enjoy these mellow respites in the green backyard by the river. Despite the restraints, she calmly eats grass and explores the lawn, while I do a crossword, read a book, or check email on my iPad...

 

Cat on a leash

hunts for crickets in the lawn.

I wait for your email.

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July 3: Holiday weekend begins

Paul finishes mowing,
picks cherry tomatoes.
Finally, sunshine.

May 11: Wave

After the rain stopped late this morning, dozens of migrating birds moved through the trees in our back yard. I stood on the violet-dappled lawn and watched them for almost two hours as they flitted and fed in the new leaves above the river. Yellow-rumped Warblers were the most numerous and least shy, often flying very near me and posing very visibly. The chorus of the songs of all those birds rose to a cacophony at the peak of the wave. I let the sound wash over me as I followed each movement in the trees with my binoculars.

Heard again after a year--
Magnolia Warbler's sweet song
rises from the chorus.

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.

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--

January 18: Sunset over the Gulf

We've been in Florida for four days now and as of this afternoon, I hadn't been to a real beach (I don't count the tidal flats of Marco Island as proper beach, though it did make for excellent shorebird habitat). So after a wonderful day spent with our host exploring Corkscrew Swamp Sanctuary--one of Florida's best birding spots--and stocking up on fresh fruit and avocados for a late lunch, we finally got to the beach. We accessed the beach north of Naples Pier and were surprised by how quiet it was on this still warm afternoon. A mixed flock of shorebirds huddled nearby, while sanderlings and a few willets fed in the edge of the surf. I walked barefoot in the soft white sand, stooping to collect colorful shells as squadrons of pelicans flew past. Aah...

As the sun sank lower and the sky began to garner some color, we noticed that a throng had at last gathered down the beach for the daily ritual of seeing the sun sink into the watery bed of the Gulf. While hazy clouds muted the finale, it was still a perfect way to end our latest day in paradise. As we left, shells jingled in our pockets, and the ever-constant waves continued to lap the shore beneath the rosy clouds.

Let us go now, watch
the old sun set, birds feeding:
ancient rituals.

October 14: Bird Flurry

Some days I won't see a bird at the feeders all day and then suddenly a flurry of them will arrive all at once. Several species have a tendency to travel in packs, and these mixed flocks will travel around in loose affiliation looking for food--be it in the form of feeders, berry bushes, seed-bearing grasses, or a hatch of flies. The advantage to this seemingly cooperative behavior is not so much altruism as the fact that more eyes can more efficiently find food and keep a look out for potential threats. 

Birders on the prowl will listen for chickadees and then see what else is tagging along with these vocal, gregarious little birds. Or you might hear a birder imitate the whinnying call of a screech owl, which serves the purpose of drawing in chickadees--who hope to scold and harass the owl into leaving the area--and their tagalong cohorts. Sometimes these can be interesting warblers or sparrows passing through, or more often local residents like the downy woodpecker.  

The flock that usually hits my feeders includes chickadees and titmice, and occasionally some goldfinches, a nuthatch or two, and maybe a cardinal. (I use the word "hits" deliberately, as the repetition of thumps as each bird lands on the feeder, one after another in quick succession, can sound like a minor assault on my windows.) Today's five-minute bird blast came in the form of several titmice, a few chickadees, and one female cardinal. The suddenness of this avian visitation shook me out of work mode  for a few moments, forced a break in my routine as I watched to see who might show up. And then, as quickly as they appeared, they were all gone, moving on in the rain. 

Fall rain falling fast.

Birds here, a feeding flurry,

then gone. Still, the rain.

March 5: Signs of Spring?

This time of year has its dismal moments--cold rain falling on ten-foot high piles of dirty snow, mountain shrouded in mist, foghorn lowing, everything looking rather bleak and blah. Perhaps that's why any little sign that spring is on its way seems so exciting. Last week my husband and I were unduly thrilled to see a turkey vulture soaring over I-95 in New Hampshire, the earliest we've ever seen a vulture in our neck of the woods. This morning while at the YMCA, I noticed out the window, against the backdrop of the town transfer station, budding pussy willows.

View-blocking mounds of snow still fill our yard, however. And on our way back home from the Y we observed a small flock of Bohemian waxwings--a boreal bird we only see here in winter--feeding in an apple tree. But then when we pulled into our driveway, we were greeted by a cacophony of singing birds: a pair of cardinals, goldfinches, house finches, titmice, chickadees... The days lengthen and they respond, regardless of the snow-encrusted landscape.

Above heaps of snow,
pussy willows waken me
from winter's long dream.

September 18: Nocturne

Last night the Maine Birding list-serv posted several reports that a good nocturnal migration flight was in progress, so at about midnight I went outside to listen. There's just something really cool about hearing those high-pitched flight calls overhead in the darkness, knowing that there are clouds of birds up there making their way south. Migration restlessness, called zugunruhe--that undeniable, internal impulse to move south--pushes them onward. Invisible in the night, birds fly in fast flocks, trying to make as much distance as they can while winds are low and predators are few. These flocks can be so big that they show up on radar maps, big moving blobs on the screen referred to as "angels."

Some birders are so good they can identify what's up there just by hearing the birds' nocturnal call notes, which are often quite different from the sounds those birds make during the day. It is thought that they make these calls to keep the flock together, a way of saying, "I'm still here" to the other birds around them. Though I can't help but wonder if there isn't a little bit of uncontainable excitement mixed in, too: "Yay! We're all together and heading south again!"

I didn't hear more than a couple of chips from my yard because the rush of the river was so loud. But it was a beautiful night just to sit on the back step and enjoy the calm. The setting, waxing moon shone through the trees brighter than headlights. Jupiter too was large and bright, and with my binoculars I could pick out what I think were a few of its moons. The constellation Cassiopeia poised just above Jupiter, over my roof. I kept expecting to see a cat or a skunk wander through the yard. I wondered what I would hear or see if I threw down a tarp and spent the night in my sleeping bag back there. But I didn't. Eventually I went back inside where the lights were on, and the only thing visible in the dark windows was my own reflection. But as I lay in bed trying to fall asleep, I imagined the soft wingbeats of angels steadily passing over the house all night long.

Angels fly southward
tonight, passing overhead.
Big moon lights the way.

September 10: Chill

Although I went to bed last night in my full-length pajama bottoms and fleece pajama top, I was freezing this morning when I woke up. My cat was curled close against me; it was hard to say who was huddling tighter against whom for warmth. For the first time in months, my husband had closed the bedroom window. As I dressed for work, I put on a wool sweater. For the first time in months, I made a cup of hot tea. Crows swirled around in the brisk breeze, black silhouettes against a dour white and grey sky. The maple tree outside my office window, the one that always turns a few weeks ahead of the other trees, already shows a few reddened leaves, as if red-faced in this chill. I'm sure we'll have more warm days ahead--we usually enjoy a lovely Indian summer--but these first ones in which we feel the season's shift breathing cool air down our necks, these can be a challenge.

Closed bedroom window
keeps out cold but mutes birdsong--
slow reveal of fall.

June 14: Dawn

This morning I awoke at the ungodly hour of first light, sometime around 4 a.m., and for some reason was wide awake for almost two hours. The overcast sky was just whitening through the screen of leaves. I tried to let the soothing rush of the river lull me back to sleep, but I was just too alert.

While I lay there trying to will my mind to emptiness, I didn't hear any birds for a long time. No dawn chorus. The spring fling is over. I became aware of the avian silence because I realized that I could hear the distant call of the foghorn, such a poignant early sound. I don't think there's a foghorn in Camden, so sound was resonating well on this still morning.

Eventually a crow flew through the back yard, cawing briefly and softly. A bit later a titmouse whistled repeatedly for a few minutes, then stopped. Later still, as I was contemplating whether I should just get out of bed for the day, I heard the tremolo of a loon flying over the house on its way upriver. Finally, as I was drifting back to sleep at last, I heard a sharp thump on the roof and then the patter of little running feet--one of the many neighborhood squirrels was up and at 'em. Good morning! The last thought I remember was wondering if flying squirrels live in our neighborhood, gliding unseen among the trees in the half-light of these early hours.

Distant foghorn moans.
Even the crow sounds muted
on this grey morning.

June 10: Cardinal Love

The last lines of a favorite bird poem, "The Cardinal," by Henry Carlile:

In the bar's dark I think of him.
There are no cardinals here.

Only a woman in a red dress.

And now when I see cardinals I think of that poem, with its wonderful, racy final image. I thought of it today, in fact, when a pair of cardinals was at my office window feeder. I looked up from my desk to catch the male cardinal passing a seed to the female. A simple, romantic gesture, almost like flirting. Then he flew off, leaving her to eat alone, her rouge-red bill bright against her drab khaki plumage and the black sunflower seeds.

Red feathers, rouged beak--
there's just something sensual
about cardinals.