March 30: Mist

spring shower

ducks already pairing up

on the misty river

November 5: At the A1 Diner

Riverside diner—

eating at eye level

with the high water marker.

October 20: White River

Following the White River

to its mountain source.

Driving back in time.

October 2: River, early fall

low water

the drowned forest

sees daylight again

 

 

August 3: Drought

river so low now

we barely hear water

just a kingfisher

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April 24: Cathance River

High water. On the banks:

tight buds of mayflowers,

single kinglet singing.

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September 16: Androscoggin River

Palimpsest of clouds

floating above reflected in

the Androscoggin.

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June 22: Waxwings

While hiking along the Georges River canal path this morning in Warren, amid the ruins of the 19th century canal, close to the rushing water...

 

Above river's roar

we hear, then see

a happy flock of waxwings.

 

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March 26: Waking to Snow

Last night I slept fitfully. Between the raging elements--wind and a pounding rain--and strange dreams culminating in a headache, I awoke rather bleary-eyed. But when I pulled up the bedroom blind, I was surprised to see both sunlight and snow. The sun lit the foam on the brimming river and the lacy frosting of snow on the back lawn. Quite pretty, really. Even though this was just a dusting, it's been so long since it snowed that I felt an excitement like when you awaken to the first snow in late fall.

Later, I checked on my irises, tulips, and chives that had begun to send up tender green spears into the spring air. Everything looks alive and hardy. Even the rhododendron, despite clenching its leaves tightly in the cold, still boasts healthy-looking buds. As I watch out the back window now, the sunlight has reached portions of the yard and melted the strands of snow which had so neatly coated the grass combed with the rake last weekend. The remaining furrows and ridges of snow ripple in the light, echoing the white water on the river. March isn't over, so I doubt this will be the last snow of the season. But its ephemeral beauty reminds us that winter has definitely loosened its grip, is letting go...

Patterns of white foam
lace the river, snowy lawn--
early spring motif.

March 13: Open Window

I readily admit I'm a wimp about the cold. So that might explain how momentous it was for me this afternoon, despite the lingering chill in the air, to open the window over my desk. My initial purpose was to see if I could figure out what was going on with the cawing, swirling gang of about eight crows out back. (They must have been playing some kind of indecipherable crow game, because no other bird or beast seemed to be involved.) Once I got the window open, however, and felt real live air pouring in, I realized that it had probably been months since I last opened a window. I could hear the crows, of course, as well as the neighbor's barking dog, the quiet white noise of the river, sociable mallards cruising up and down the banks in interchanging pairs, a scolding squirrel, and the rustle of crisp, wind-tossed leaves blanketing our yard. Now, even though I'm freezing, I'm hesitant to close the window and cut myself off again from what's going on out there. Although, every time a gust of winds stirs up all those dead leaves, it's reminding me that soon I'll have to undertake my annual chore of raking the yard to expose my flower beds and lawn to what will hopefully be the kinder, gentler air of spring.

An open window:
rustle of dead leaves, crisp breeze.
Not quite warm enough.

January 14: The Little Things

Some ordinary days end up being special because a lot of little things add up to creating one big positive vibe for the day. Like today. When I got up this morning and looked out the window, I noticed the river was steaming. Although I knew the steam simply meant that the churning froth of dark water was actually less cold than the frigid air, I couldn't help but think that if I ran outside and jumped into the river, I'd experience the same glorious warmth of that hot spring we used to hike to deep in an old growth forest in Oregon. Skinny-dipping is fun, but skinny-dipping in naturally hot water amid giant Douglas firs as snow falls around you is an unparalleled experience.

As I drove to work, I noticed that some of the ledges on Mount Battie sport giant icicles that look like the jagged teeth of the Abominable Snowman on "Rudolph." The mountain baring its icy teeth--I like that image as the face of this often inhospitable winter world.

Then, when I was walking into my office, I heard the two-note love song of a chickadee Romeo. Despite the fact that my car thermometer read 11 degrees, he had courting on his mind. Who can't help but smile at that? Silly bird. He went on and on. In my head I crafted a new version of Cole Porter's song, now called Too Darn Cold: "It's too darn cold, it's too darn cold... When the thermometer goes way down and the shivering's getting real old, think romance, in ski pants? No..." (Sorry, Cole.)

Later at work I watched the red-tailed hawk once more winging its way up the river. And later still, a rosy glow of sunset splashed the sky and river ice with pink. Nothing extraordinary. No epiphanies or magic moments. But a day with a good spirit.

Chickadee love songs
as mountain bares icy teeth--
crazy winter world.

November 28: Rain

In our little house the sound of water is a constant. The river outside pours past, swollen now with the rain that has fallen heavily the past few days. Last night as I tried to sink into sleep, the rain drummed so loudly on the roof that I couldn't help but wonder if some large, agile animal were doing a dance in our attic. Knowing such a dance was impossible in our attic space full of blown insulation was small comfort for my insomniac anxiety. I could hear the rush of river, roar of wind, rain pattering on the propane tanks outside the bedroom window, and instead of feeling cozy and warm in my bed, I felt threatened within our home's thin walls.

I wondered if we would hear the emergency whistle above the noise of the storm if the Seabright Dam just upriver were to break. We live on a bluff above the still-visible flood plain of the river's former flow. But my childhood nightmares of giant waves washing away the house resurrected when we moved down river of two dams. As I lie in the dark listening to rain, my mind often wanders upriver to the body of Lake Megunticook--all that water just waiting there in the basin between Bald Mountain and Mount Megunticook--a barely restrained animal that, if it really exerted its full power, could go anywhere it wanted, fill every crevice of this town.

But those are night thoughts. This morning the white of the sky echoes the color of the wet shed and the foam churned up by the river as it rolls over rocks that are usually exposed. Chickadees and titmice slip from branch to bare branch like falling leaves. The lawn is an intricate brown tapestry of leaves. Moss on the north side of the shed roof is vivid green, flourishing in this moisture and unseasonable warmth. Slim bodies of trees sway in the wind. The rain seems to have stopped for now. I contemplate venturing outside for one last November run, but lean toward the lights and warmth of the gym.

Upriver the lake
lies silent, power contained.
But here--churn and foam.