June 7: Chill

climate change

unseasonably cold night

in an empty bed

December 18: Climate change

Lingering warbler.
Bright yellow-and-green pool toy
caught in an eddy.

December 12: Warm spell

Sunlit morning,

shadows of crows passing over

the still-green lawn.

 

Posted with Blogsy

November 13: Meteorologist at Pecha Kucha

On the weather map--

El Nino's colors and swirls,

work of an artist.

Posted with Blogsy

October 15: Warm Spell

Still warm at dusk.

A bat flits overhead.

What else will we lose?

 

Posted with Blogsy

November 5: First snow

The first few flakes of snow were falling this morning, barely visible, but a sign that we're on the cusp of the cold season. Meanwhile, a birder friend made a morning trip to Sebasticook Lake to see if he could relocate a white pelican found there yesterday. (American White Pelican is a very rare species in Maine--this one undoubtedly ended up here thanks to Sandy.) He was successful, finding not only a new "state bird"--the first of this species he had seen in Maine--but also the first pelican he'd observed while snow was falling.

Snow falling on pelican.
Climate change:
things fall apart.

September 8: Red-bellied woodpecker

A poet friend writes, "Haiku is the art of meaning what you don't say." My flaw as a haiku poet is I'm too narrative-minded. My impulse as a writer is to tell stories, make the connections between what I'm experiencing and what I'm feeling so the reader can be there with me. I think I need a lot more practice before I'll actually write what a true haiku practitioner would consider a good haiku. It's such a challenge to present the moment and let it stand alone, be what it is and not impose myself on it further. Today's poem is not successful in that way. But there it is.

*

Red-bellied woodpeckers, while very common in southern states, were relatively rare in Maine until an incursion of hundreds of birds in fall 2005. Now they seem to be here to stay, and I occasionally encounter one in my neighborhood. This week I heard one calling nearby twice, but haven't seen it yet this summer. It still seems so strange to me, to hear this bird I encounter regularly in Florida here in my own yard.

Global climate change has done more than just shift weather patterns. It's been slowly but surely pushing southern bird species northward, where our many bird feeders also help keep them here. Fifty years ago, there were no mourning doves here, no cardinals or titmice. Thirty years ago or so, I remember seeing my first turkey vulture in this area. Red-bellies are just one of many even more recent arrivals.

Red-bellied woodpecker calling.
Absorbing this humid air
I think of melting ice caps.

December 3: Outside

I volunteered to help at a road race this morning, and it was so cold that we were slipping in the parking lot, and bundled up in full winter regalia of puffy down coats, hats, and gloves to do the timing... and then Santa showed up! But by the time I got home, it felt warm enough to finish up some gardening work I never got to this fall. So in early December I actually spent about an hour outside fussing in my flower beds, trimming off some withered stalks. Under the dead leaves, the irises were pushing up some fresh green blades, tricked by the generally warm weather we've experienced in the past month. And on one flower a single yellow blossom lingered. I too am not fully ready to call it winter and go into dormancy.

Heavy morning frost,
yet a flower still lingers.
I'm OK with that.

November 30: Three Crows

When I got back to the office after lunch, I noticed three crows forming a black triangle in a tree. A co-worker said they had just been bathing in a puddle in our parking lot, splashing a lot of water around. I wish I'd seen it. As we watched them fluff up and preen in the tree, someone leaving the office asked what we were looking at. When we pointed out the crows, he noted that his wife always tells him that according to some Native American tradition, it's good luck to see three crows together like that. We'll take it.

No ice yet. Crows bathe,
then three preen in late fall sun.
Is this warmth lucky?