calls overhead of a loon
flying inland
Showing posts with label loon. Show all posts
Showing posts with label loon. Show all posts
Thursday, March 29, 2018
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Sunday, July 21, 2013
Sunday, March 3, 2013
March 3: Sun and snow
The sky brightens at Owls Head Lighthouse, as we look across the water toward the Camden Hills, where snowfall veils the summits of Bald and Ragged Mountains, and clouds hang heavy over Megunticook and Mount Battie. With spotting scopes we find offshore one loon beginning to get its spotted breeding plumage back, some guillemots, and a lone Razorbill.
Lone loon afloat on cold seas,
lowering clouds.
Our light won't last.
Lone loon afloat on cold seas,
lowering clouds.
Our light won't last.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
August 1: First day of August
A new month begins, summer creeps ever onward. After a rainy morning, I felt fortunate to stand in the sun this afternoon on a creaky old dock on a pond in Morrill, surrounded by purple pickerelweed flowers waving above the water's surface and darting dragonflies. We could see little fish swimming in the shallow water around the dock. A kingfisher rattled in the distance. And after we hiked through the pines back up the trail, we finally heard a loon call--not a cry of alarm, but that simple call of a loon declaring its presence on the small, bright pond.
Now August begins.
From the lily-choked pond, loon
calls forth the new month.
Now August begins.
From the lily-choked pond, loon
calls forth the new month.
Monday, June 18, 2012
June 18: New Moon
At an inexplicable low point in the biorhythms cycle today. Maybe I can blame it on tomorrow's new moon. But when I returned home, my day was salvaged by the explosion of fragrant peonies in my garden and the call of a loon in the distance, wending its way upriver back to the nest for the night.
Impending new moon.
If not for these peonies,
I'd own that darkness.
Impending new moon.
If not for these peonies,
I'd own that darkness.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
May 22: Overhead
This morning from my office I could hear the piercing, high-pitched call of a broad-winged hawk. Often I'm faked out by blue jay mimics, so I went outside to see which this was, hawk or jay. Overhead the small hawk circled above the office several times, whistling insistently. It felt as if he were calling us outside to admire him as surveyed his domain: Pay attention, subjects! The light illuminated his barred breast and banded tail. I could see where the same flight feather in each wing had fallen out and left a gap, like missing teeth--clearly, he's molting. He called over and over, eventually soaring over the river toward Mount Battie. I think they nest on the mountain each summer.
Later at my desk I heard a loon calling as it flew upriver. Such a strange and wonderful sound to punctuate my work day. And so unlike the beeping of trucks backing up at the warehouse across the street or the neighbor's dog barking incessantly.
River calls them in.
We're simple witnesses here
to all that wild noise.
Later at my desk I heard a loon calling as it flew upriver. Such a strange and wonderful sound to punctuate my work day. And so unlike the beeping of trucks backing up at the warehouse across the street or the neighbor's dog barking incessantly.
River calls them in.
We're simple witnesses here
to all that wild noise.
Friday, February 3, 2012
February 3: Loon in the harbor
During a work-related lunch at the Waterfront this afternoon, I kept getting distracted by gulls flying over the harbor in view of the windows: Was I mistaken, or did that one seem to have all-white wings? (Yes, I was mistaken.) Is it too early to see a laughing gull? (Yes.) Is that just a large, immature gull in the distance or an eagle? (Gull.) It made me realize how much I'm itching to get out and tromp around on this icy snow crust and look for some birds, something I haven't done enough of this winter--with the exception of our vacation in Florida (which thankfully did not involve icy snow crust).
As our conversation wound to a close and the food disappeared, I was inordinately pleased to notice a loon drifting around among the empty floats in the harbor. It wasn't an unusual loon, just a big fat common loon with a white throat, hanging out, diving now and then. I pointed it out to my dining companion. Soon, I imagined, that loon, sporting spiffy new breeding plumage, will be perfectly poised to head a few miles inland and stake out a perfect territory on the lake.
Winter mind, barren,
latches onto these few birds,
making more of them.
As our conversation wound to a close and the food disappeared, I was inordinately pleased to notice a loon drifting around among the empty floats in the harbor. It wasn't an unusual loon, just a big fat common loon with a white throat, hanging out, diving now and then. I pointed it out to my dining companion. Soon, I imagined, that loon, sporting spiffy new breeding plumage, will be perfectly poised to head a few miles inland and stake out a perfect territory on the lake.
Winter mind, barren,
latches onto these few birds,
making more of them.
Friday, August 27, 2010
August 27: Loon at Noon
Although it's not unusual to sometimes see loons on the river near my office, I don't usually hear them here. At high noon on this sunny late summer day, however, the repeated calls of a loon rode the breeze down the river and in through my office windows--a nice reminder for me that while I work away inside, water and birds are not too far away outside.
Of course I instantly began to play in my head with the words loon and noon... The loon calls at noon near the full moon. Too soon? The mouth loves making those long "oo" sounds. No wonder kids learning to talk like "Goodnight, Moon" so much. Or books about loons. Around here most children know what a loon is and can imitate for you what sound it makes as soon as they're old enough to talk.
But beyond the wordplay, I also enjoyed the fact that this timely loon served as my lunch bell today. I don't know what made me check the time when I heard its calls, but when I did, I was surprised to see that it was noon. I'd thought it was much earlier in the day. I was reminded how when the woolen mill was still operating in downtown Camden, its whistle for lunch breaks and shift changes set the schedule for the whole town. When you heard it go off in the afternoon, you knew it was 4:00, for example. Perhaps this loon is the same punctual bird that calls while flying upriver every morning at 7:30.
Flute-song of the loon
celebrates the sun at noon.
And wind, and crickets.
Of course I instantly began to play in my head with the words loon and noon... The loon calls at noon near the full moon. Too soon? The mouth loves making those long "oo" sounds. No wonder kids learning to talk like "Goodnight, Moon" so much. Or books about loons. Around here most children know what a loon is and can imitate for you what sound it makes as soon as they're old enough to talk.
But beyond the wordplay, I also enjoyed the fact that this timely loon served as my lunch bell today. I don't know what made me check the time when I heard its calls, but when I did, I was surprised to see that it was noon. I'd thought it was much earlier in the day. I was reminded how when the woolen mill was still operating in downtown Camden, its whistle for lunch breaks and shift changes set the schedule for the whole town. When you heard it go off in the afternoon, you knew it was 4:00, for example. Perhaps this loon is the same punctual bird that calls while flying upriver every morning at 7:30.
Flute-song of the loon
celebrates the sun at noon.
And wind, and crickets.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
August 19: The Fog
My sister and her family are visiting from Massachusetts, so tonight we organized an al fresco lobster feed at my parents' house on the river. It was a warm evening with no bugs, and we hung out on the back lawn with beer and chips while the baby was put to bed, catching up. Paul saw a huge fish jump. A raven croaked nearby. I tried to teach my niece how to throw a frisbee. Good, relaxing family time.
Just as dinner was ready to be served, we noticed a fog creeping up the river. Actually, creeping is not the right word, as that makes it sound like this was a slow, gradual progression. The fog was speeding up the river like something possessed. I half expected ghosts of pirates to jump out of the mist. Before we'd even finished cracking open the first lobster claw, the river backdrop was completely blanked out. A white screen. From within that whiteness we heard loons call. At one point my mother's sharp eyes picked out the silvery wake of the beaver on its habitual evening swim upriver. A flock of geese flew noisily past, but we never saw them.
On the drive home, the sky was clear over Mount Megunticook and Mount Battie. We could see a planet hanging bright and low over the ridge line to the east, and thanks to the Planets app on my iPad, we learned that it was Jupiter. Clear to the east, fog bank clinging to the course of the river to the west.
Fog whites out our view:
no sunset, no loons, no geese,
just calls in the mist.
Just as dinner was ready to be served, we noticed a fog creeping up the river. Actually, creeping is not the right word, as that makes it sound like this was a slow, gradual progression. The fog was speeding up the river like something possessed. I half expected ghosts of pirates to jump out of the mist. Before we'd even finished cracking open the first lobster claw, the river backdrop was completely blanked out. A white screen. From within that whiteness we heard loons call. At one point my mother's sharp eyes picked out the silvery wake of the beaver on its habitual evening swim upriver. A flock of geese flew noisily past, but we never saw them.
On the drive home, the sky was clear over Mount Megunticook and Mount Battie. We could see a planet hanging bright and low over the ridge line to the east, and thanks to the Planets app on my iPad, we learned that it was Jupiter. Clear to the east, fog bank clinging to the course of the river to the west.
Fog whites out our view:
no sunset, no loons, no geese,
just calls in the mist.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
August 11: Loon Birthday
When it's a special day, a birthday, it can sometimes seem like every good thing that happens is for your benefit. The universe revolves around you, celebrates your very existence. That's a good birthday.
Today is my mom's birthday, and while she was relaxing in a lawn chair out on her float on the river this morning, she got her gift: the two resident adult loons and their fuzzy brown chick approached within ten feet of her. My mom has been watching this baby loon's development since it was hatched, so it's virtually part of the family at this point. If she doesn't see it every day, she worries. The loons, of course, were wishing her a happy birthday. And the parents were teaching their youngster a lesson, catching a fish and dropping it in the water in front of the chick so it could learn how to catch fish for itself. The true gift was their letting my mother observe such intimate animal behavior up close.
Thankfully, the universe continues to revolve around Mom tonight, as the Red Sox, her favorite team (and mine), seem on their way to another victory versus Toronto.
A touching side note about my mother's birthday: when my sister told my four-year-old niece Fiona that today was Nanny's birthday, she burst into tears, upset that Nanny was "getting old and would die." My niece's universe revolves around my mother for sure!
Loon family visit--
river offers up this gift.
Happy birthday, Mom!
Today is my mom's birthday, and while she was relaxing in a lawn chair out on her float on the river this morning, she got her gift: the two resident adult loons and their fuzzy brown chick approached within ten feet of her. My mom has been watching this baby loon's development since it was hatched, so it's virtually part of the family at this point. If she doesn't see it every day, she worries. The loons, of course, were wishing her a happy birthday. And the parents were teaching their youngster a lesson, catching a fish and dropping it in the water in front of the chick so it could learn how to catch fish for itself. The true gift was their letting my mother observe such intimate animal behavior up close.
Thankfully, the universe continues to revolve around Mom tonight, as the Red Sox, her favorite team (and mine), seem on their way to another victory versus Toronto.
A touching side note about my mother's birthday: when my sister told my four-year-old niece Fiona that today was Nanny's birthday, she burst into tears, upset that Nanny was "getting old and would die." My niece's universe revolves around my mother for sure!
Loon family visit--
river offers up this gift.
Happy birthday, Mom!
Saturday, July 31, 2010
July 31: Loon Call
Most mornings I hear a loon calling as it flies north over the house. The river out back is much too shallow and rocky here to accommodate a loon--they need a certain amount of open water to get up enough speed to take flight--so these early calls are from a loon in transit. Does the bird have a dawn fishing ritual in Camden Harbor? Wherever it goes each day, we're lucky enough to live in its flight path as it presumably returns to the lake.
It always gives me a little thrill to hear that tremolo as I go through my morning ablutions. Although we live in a dense neighborhood just a mile from downtown Camden, this flight song of the loon is our own call of the wild, hinting of remoter places. For just a few moments I look out at the craggy face of Mount Battie and imagine that I'm spending this golden summer at an old sporting camp in the North Woods wilderness, with a sunny deck overlooking a lake full of trout and loons that know how to properly greet the day.
Loon's dawn reveille.
Clean morning air promises
perfect summer day.
It always gives me a little thrill to hear that tremolo as I go through my morning ablutions. Although we live in a dense neighborhood just a mile from downtown Camden, this flight song of the loon is our own call of the wild, hinting of remoter places. For just a few moments I look out at the craggy face of Mount Battie and imagine that I'm spending this golden summer at an old sporting camp in the North Woods wilderness, with a sunny deck overlooking a lake full of trout and loons that know how to properly greet the day.
Loon's dawn reveille.
Clean morning air promises
perfect summer day.
Friday, July 30, 2010
July 30: Loon Chick
This evening we spent time with my four-year-old niece, who is staying with my parents for the weekend. We had dinner al fresco in the back yard, and then Fiona and I decided to sit on the dock and watch the river. Water bugs skittered across the surface, and Fiona was excited to see a couple of small fish slip past us underwater. As my husband got his fly rod ready to do a little casting before sunset, we all noticed the loon family in the middle of the river: two adults with one fuzzy brown chick between them. They seemed to be teaching it how to fish. Fiona looked through binoculars at them, but I'm not sure she knows how to use them well enough to see the birds. My mother tried to explain to her how loon calls are different depending on where they are, that the place, not the bird, determines what they sound like. I think that too was beyond Fiona's interest and comprehension at this point, but we'll make a birder out of her yet!
Fish began jumping as sunset burnished the clouds. Fiona was impressed with Uncle Paul's dragonfly fly. She'd probably have been even more impressed if he'd caught something with it. Four ducks that I think were wood ducks flew past. A beaver slowly made its way upriver, as it does every evening, a silver vee trailing behind it. And the loons drifted upriver too, still fishing. My dad built a small fire in the fire pit, and we all stayed outside in the growing dark, past Fiona's bedtime.
Loon chick with parents--
family night on the river.
I watch with my niece.
Fish began jumping as sunset burnished the clouds. Fiona was impressed with Uncle Paul's dragonfly fly. She'd probably have been even more impressed if he'd caught something with it. Four ducks that I think were wood ducks flew past. A beaver slowly made its way upriver, as it does every evening, a silver vee trailing behind it. And the loons drifted upriver too, still fishing. My dad built a small fire in the fire pit, and we all stayed outside in the growing dark, past Fiona's bedtime.
Loon chick with parents--
family night on the river.
I watch with my niece.
Monday, July 5, 2010
July 5: Heat
It's a hot one here in New England, and I'm sitting in the shade at the river's edge while my husband fishes from a kayak just offshore. Birds sing all around us, trills and hums, and a loon just drifted by. Another loon sits on her eggs in the floating nest tethered just off their usual nesting island, where in past years the shifting water level has led to nest failure. Periodically a wind chime that sounds a bit like a cow bell rocks in the light breeze, or a bass jumps close to shore, the ripples slowly spreading outward. A lazy day, a holiday. A chipmunk just meandered under my chair and legs as if it hadn't a care in the world.
I'm ostensibly reading biologist Bernd Heinrich's book Summer World: A Season of Bounty as I sit here, but mostly I'm just listening to the birds and watching light play on the water. It's almost too hot to read--my brain just wants a siesta.
Heinrich says, "Summer is a time of green, urgency, lots of love lost and found. It is the most intense time of year, when the natural world of the northern hemisphere is almost suddenly populated with billions of animals awakening from dormancy, and billions more arriving from the tropics. Almost overnight there is a wild orgy of courting, mating, and rearing young. The main order of business in summer is reproduction."
For purposes of this book, "summer" is the period from May through October (the other six months of the year are beautifully covered in his book Winter World). Clearly at this point of the season I think we've moved beyond orgy into the rearing young phase, at least judging by the languorous mood prevailing today. There's more simple play happening than fooling around, in other words. (Cole Porter's lyrics to "Too Darn Hot" spring to mind.) A juvenile sparrow just chased a chickadee around a pine tree. And a few hours south of Maine, my niece's fourth birthday party just began, an all-girl, princess extravaganza. Yesterday my other niece, who turned one on the Solstice, took her first steps, and must've been so excited about it that she stayed up all night long, according to my weary sister. Rearing young is exhausting work--you won't catch me doing it--but it's an essential part of the cycle of life, the mature, summer part. Baby birds are busting out all over now, and adults fly urgently to and fro with beaks full of food. It's the season of bounty and new life, always something new to see, always something new to gather for the memory stores.
Afternoon heat rides
birdsong, trees' green reflections--
my skin's wet with it.
I'm ostensibly reading biologist Bernd Heinrich's book Summer World: A Season of Bounty as I sit here, but mostly I'm just listening to the birds and watching light play on the water. It's almost too hot to read--my brain just wants a siesta.
Heinrich says, "Summer is a time of green, urgency, lots of love lost and found. It is the most intense time of year, when the natural world of the northern hemisphere is almost suddenly populated with billions of animals awakening from dormancy, and billions more arriving from the tropics. Almost overnight there is a wild orgy of courting, mating, and rearing young. The main order of business in summer is reproduction."
For purposes of this book, "summer" is the period from May through October (the other six months of the year are beautifully covered in his book Winter World). Clearly at this point of the season I think we've moved beyond orgy into the rearing young phase, at least judging by the languorous mood prevailing today. There's more simple play happening than fooling around, in other words. (Cole Porter's lyrics to "Too Darn Hot" spring to mind.) A juvenile sparrow just chased a chickadee around a pine tree. And a few hours south of Maine, my niece's fourth birthday party just began, an all-girl, princess extravaganza. Yesterday my other niece, who turned one on the Solstice, took her first steps, and must've been so excited about it that she stayed up all night long, according to my weary sister. Rearing young is exhausting work--you won't catch me doing it--but it's an essential part of the cycle of life, the mature, summer part. Baby birds are busting out all over now, and adults fly urgently to and fro with beaks full of food. It's the season of bounty and new life, always something new to see, always something new to gather for the memory stores.
Afternoon heat rides
birdsong, trees' green reflections--
my skin's wet with it.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
June 26: Backyard Birds
After mowing the lawn today, I did something unusual for me. I sat on the back step in the sun and... well, that's it. I just sat on the back step. For about ten minutes I did nothing but just sit there and live in the moment. My cat, who is strictly an indoor cat occasionally allowed supervised visits onto the porch, came over and, instead of trying to make her usual escape attempt, curled up in my lap. Apparently she wanted to live in the moment too. She purred and dozed, while I looked around and thought about how much I love my back yard.
Back yard, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love the ever-present rushing music of the river that passes over your feet. I love the canopy of oak, beech, ash, and maple leaves that surround you, leaving just the right-sized opening for sky and sunlight. I love the frilly fans of ferns that border your edges and the tall goldenrod along the porch steps. I love your view of my neighbor's orange day lilies. I love how you keep my flowers healthy, even the wild ones. And I love how the combination of water and tree cover brings birds into your sheltered embrace.
If you don't go looking for birds, sometimes they have a way of finding you. While I sat there enjoying my yard in all its early summer greenery, I heard the following:
cardinal whistling up a storm in the neighbor's yard
squalling group of crows upriver
broad-winged hawk high overhead
pileated woodpecker cackling somewhere downriver
loon calling in flight
warbling vireo moving through the trees above the river
several robins singing throughout the neighborhood
song sparrow across the street
hummingbird squealing through the yard, hopefully on its way to my bee balm
I've found fewer birds than that while out actually looking for them! And my cat was oblivious to it all.
Sometimes sitting still
turns out to be the best way
to hear birds, here, now.
Back yard, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love the ever-present rushing music of the river that passes over your feet. I love the canopy of oak, beech, ash, and maple leaves that surround you, leaving just the right-sized opening for sky and sunlight. I love the frilly fans of ferns that border your edges and the tall goldenrod along the porch steps. I love your view of my neighbor's orange day lilies. I love how you keep my flowers healthy, even the wild ones. And I love how the combination of water and tree cover brings birds into your sheltered embrace.
If you don't go looking for birds, sometimes they have a way of finding you. While I sat there enjoying my yard in all its early summer greenery, I heard the following:
cardinal whistling up a storm in the neighbor's yard
squalling group of crows upriver
broad-winged hawk high overhead
pileated woodpecker cackling somewhere downriver
loon calling in flight
warbling vireo moving through the trees above the river
several robins singing throughout the neighborhood
song sparrow across the street
hummingbird squealing through the yard, hopefully on its way to my bee balm
I've found fewer birds than that while out actually looking for them! And my cat was oblivious to it all.
Sometimes sitting still
turns out to be the best way
to hear birds, here, now.
Monday, June 14, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
June 13: Under the Skylight
Last night I stayed at a friend's house in a guest bedroom with a skylight. After margaritas, a late dinner, Moroccan rosebud tea, and much talking into the wee hours, I retired to my loft under the stars. The clarity with which I could see the vast clusters of bright stars made me realize how different--how utterly profound and amazing--the night sky can look in a place with no light pollution. There were so many stars swarming in my field of vision that I couldn't even pick out constellations, but just let my eyes enjoy the spectacle above me. A little later, as I was drifting off to sleep, the call of a loon drifted in from a nearby pond. I fell asleep feeling blessed by these things, and even more so when I awoke this morning to hear hermit thrushes singing in the woods just outside my room, and off in the distance, the cries of ospreys fishing in Somes Sound.
Loon calls in the night.
I sway in sleep's open arms
watched over by stars.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
April 1: Calm Seas
I walked on the Rockland breakwater after work this afternoon with my friend Brian and his dog. It was truly the calm after the storm. Big wads of seaweed were strewn across the top of the breakwater, tossed there by recent high tides. Something big had clearly happened out there. But today the wide sky opened clear and blue above us, the sea calmly lapped the shore, the tide had pulled back to an unthreatening distance, and even the birds seemed mellow--except one insistent cardinal whose repetitive whistle sounded like a siren. We saw several loons pausing on their journey back to inland waters, some mergansers, eiders, and a small group of lingering long-tailed ducks carrying on a late afternoon chat. They seemed in no hurry to be heading northward. The air was mild, no breeze at all. Two biplanes flew over like we were in some weird nostalgic old movie. Looking back at the granite jetty as we were leaving, the long line of massive cut stones shone golden in the late light, stretching out like a delicate bridge to the lighthouse at the end.
Hold this memory:
loon's red eye gazing back, calm.
Blue skies, blue water.
Simplistic, perhaps, but sometimes it's the most basic and ephemeral of images that stick with us the longest, something spotted along the road as we drove past at 50 MPH, a single bird glimpsed in a bush, the way the light shone for just one moment on a particular rock or tree.
Hold this memory:
loon's red eye gazing back, calm.
Blue skies, blue water.
Photo by Brian Willson
Simplistic, perhaps, but sometimes it's the most basic and ephemeral of images that stick with us the longest, something spotted along the road as we drove past at 50 MPH, a single bird glimpsed in a bush, the way the light shone for just one moment on a particular rock or tree.
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