I love waking up for a few minutes around dawn to hear the birds welcoming the day--the jubilant dawn chorus--before I fall back asleep. Last night was so warm I left the bedroom window cracked, hoping to be awakened this morning by birdsong. When I did wake up for a brief period in the day's wee hours, however, no wave of melodious warblers was moving through our back yard. I didn't even hear robins, whose rollicking songs open and close each day--just some chickadees and a phoebe, their songs punctuating the constant rush of the river in the background.
My husband, who usually wakes up at least an hour before I do, was away last night. So after I fell back asleep, there were not even the noises of his puttering around the house getting ready for work to rouse me again. I slept till the alarm went off. It was unusually restful, but when I did finally get out of bed, I felt something had been missing.
No dawn chorus, nor
your usual morning sounds--
only the river.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Thursday, May 20, 2010
May 20: Horse Chestnuts
Tonight as I drove to Rockland for sushi and a movie, I passed two glorious horse chestnut trees all leafed out and in full bloom. The sky held that rich light normally seen on early summer evenings--it certainly felt like a summer evening--and the white blossoms on the trees seemed to glow from within. I was reminded, in a way, of Swedish Christmas trees decorated with lit candles. So many flowers, such an abundance of beauty, and all the promise ahead of me of the kind of night when the sidewalks are busy with people like me made joyful by this early warm weather.
Tree full of candles
lights my way into twilight.
It feels like summer.
Tree full of candles
lights my way into twilight.
It feels like summer.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
May 19: Routine
Having spent this entire rainy day inside at my desk working intensely on several projects, I'm realizing that no image stands out in my mind to inspire a haiku. It was a pretty routine day in front of the computer and on the phone. I ate my usual lunch at my desk. The blue jay visited my feeder again, looking absurdly large and gawky. The tapping chickadee visited the feeder several times throughout the day, as it does every day. The rain fell harder, then mellowed out by dusk. I worked after everyone else had left the office, as usual, and came home to the Red Sox on television. (An Ortiz home run lifted my spirits.)
Meanwhile, while I was experiencing my ordinary day, birders in North Conway, New Hampshire were observing a most unusual rare bird: a scissor-tailed flycatcher. Not your routine spring migrant, the scissor-tailed flycatcher is a bird of the southern plains, the state bird of Oklahoma. The only ones I've ever seen were on a birding trip to Kansas a few years ago, although it's a bird I'd dearly wanted to see since I was a kid. Take a look in a bird book and you can see why. That long, crazy, split tail--how can that be real? And when the bird hovers to catch flies, trailing that wacky tail behind it, its underwings flash a beautiful russet color. It's a graceful, lovely, unusual creature, and absolutely does not belong anywhere near downtown North Conway, NH. Apparently only three or four of them have ever been recorded in that state, and none recently.
So while for me today was business as usual, it was reassuring to know that somewhere out there something cool was happening.
Same jay, chickadee.
Yet just a few hours away,
bird I once dreamed of.
Meanwhile, while I was experiencing my ordinary day, birders in North Conway, New Hampshire were observing a most unusual rare bird: a scissor-tailed flycatcher. Not your routine spring migrant, the scissor-tailed flycatcher is a bird of the southern plains, the state bird of Oklahoma. The only ones I've ever seen were on a birding trip to Kansas a few years ago, although it's a bird I'd dearly wanted to see since I was a kid. Take a look in a bird book and you can see why. That long, crazy, split tail--how can that be real? And when the bird hovers to catch flies, trailing that wacky tail behind it, its underwings flash a beautiful russet color. It's a graceful, lovely, unusual creature, and absolutely does not belong anywhere near downtown North Conway, NH. Apparently only three or four of them have ever been recorded in that state, and none recently.
So while for me today was business as usual, it was reassuring to know that somewhere out there something cool was happening.
Same jay, chickadee.
Yet just a few hours away,
bird I once dreamed of.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
May 18: Prairie Warbler
This morning I led a small group on a bird walk at Coastal Mountains Land Trust's Head of Tide Preserve in Belfast. We began our outing by walking along the power line corridor that bisects the preserve, primarily because I knew we'd find prairie warblers there. Not only had at least two birder friends reported seeing them there in the past two weeks, but I myself had come across a few on a short visit to the preserve on Sunday. So I wanted to start our walk with an interesting bird, with something out of the ordinary for midcoast Maine.
Prairie warbler is a misnomer, as the birds are not found on prairies. Instead, they prefer shrubby grasslands and forest edges. For the past few years I've been hearing them sing from bushes amid the blueberry barrens of Beech Hill in Rockport, for example. And they're a common nesting species at Kennebunk Plains in southern Maine. While finding them this far up the coast is unusual, finding them along a power line corridor is not. And as was the case today, you can often follow the cut and hear one bird after another singing in its established space.
It's a pretty bird, primarily yellow with black streaks on its side and a distinctive black facial pattern. Similar to the palm warbler, it also wags its tail frequently. But the most notable thing about this warbler is its song, the buzzy notes of which ascend quickly, as if moving up a scale. (If I were a musician I'm sure I could describe the song in a more technically accurate way.) Have a listen (you've got to scroll down a little bit to click on the song). It's unique and easily recognizable--the first prairie I ever found I identified without even seeing the bird first, because I'd heard a recording of its voice and it stuck with me. I remember thinking that it sounded like the bird was getting ready to blast off at the end of his song.
Buzzy yellow bird,
as your song ascends the scale,
my spirits rise too.
Prairie warbler is a misnomer, as the birds are not found on prairies. Instead, they prefer shrubby grasslands and forest edges. For the past few years I've been hearing them sing from bushes amid the blueberry barrens of Beech Hill in Rockport, for example. And they're a common nesting species at Kennebunk Plains in southern Maine. While finding them this far up the coast is unusual, finding them along a power line corridor is not. And as was the case today, you can often follow the cut and hear one bird after another singing in its established space.
It's a pretty bird, primarily yellow with black streaks on its side and a distinctive black facial pattern. Similar to the palm warbler, it also wags its tail frequently. But the most notable thing about this warbler is its song, the buzzy notes of which ascend quickly, as if moving up a scale. (If I were a musician I'm sure I could describe the song in a more technically accurate way.) Have a listen (you've got to scroll down a little bit to click on the song). It's unique and easily recognizable--the first prairie I ever found I identified without even seeing the bird first, because I'd heard a recording of its voice and it stuck with me. I remember thinking that it sounded like the bird was getting ready to blast off at the end of his song.
Buzzy yellow bird,
as your song ascends the scale,
my spirits rise too.
Monday, May 17, 2010
May 17: Anniversary
Seven years ago today my husband and I got married at Children's Chapel in Rockport. Every year on our anniversary we visit the Chapel, which has been a favorite place of mine since I was a child. While I never actually envisioned myself getting married there--unlike many girls, I never imagined getting married at all--there has always been something special about this stone, open-air, non-denominational chapel surrounded by flower-filled gardens, blossoming trees, and tall pines, and boasting a view of the bay.
On today's visit we noted that it was significantly warmer than the day we got married there, when I wore lacy white long underwear under my satin gown. On that day the only things blooming were some tulips and a small flowering magnolia. With spring having arrived early this year, the gardens were lush and fragrant. Pink rhododendrons lined the walkways, forget-me-nots carpeted the lawn, crabapples were already dropping petals onto the stones. On the ocean side, a pine warbler trilled, and we watched a barge slowly make its way down the bay. On the lawn side, parulas buzzed in the cedars. I had a fleeting thought that it would be fun to get married there all over again, with the warm weather gods on our side this time. Renewing vows seems to be the fad right now, after all.
As beautiful as today was, however, I wouldn't trade it for that day seven years ago. As I mentioned in yesterday's post, the theme of our wedding was ravens, specifically the ravens associated with the Norse god Odin: Hugin (Thought) and Munin (Memory). Without getting into the intricacies of meaning those had for us then, I can honestly say that those themes are just as relevant in our married life now. As we revisited the site where our married life began, we remembered the joy we felt at taking this big step together while surrounded by those we loved and who loved us. And we also shared thoughts that could only arise out of sharing more than 13 years together.
Anniversary--
remember the joy we felt?
Let's hold those thoughts close.
On today's visit we noted that it was significantly warmer than the day we got married there, when I wore lacy white long underwear under my satin gown. On that day the only things blooming were some tulips and a small flowering magnolia. With spring having arrived early this year, the gardens were lush and fragrant. Pink rhododendrons lined the walkways, forget-me-nots carpeted the lawn, crabapples were already dropping petals onto the stones. On the ocean side, a pine warbler trilled, and we watched a barge slowly make its way down the bay. On the lawn side, parulas buzzed in the cedars. I had a fleeting thought that it would be fun to get married there all over again, with the warm weather gods on our side this time. Renewing vows seems to be the fad right now, after all.
As beautiful as today was, however, I wouldn't trade it for that day seven years ago. As I mentioned in yesterday's post, the theme of our wedding was ravens, specifically the ravens associated with the Norse god Odin: Hugin (Thought) and Munin (Memory). Without getting into the intricacies of meaning those had for us then, I can honestly say that those themes are just as relevant in our married life now. As we revisited the site where our married life began, we remembered the joy we felt at taking this big step together while surrounded by those we loved and who loved us. And we also shared thoughts that could only arise out of sharing more than 13 years together.
Anniversary--
remember the joy we felt?
Let's hold those thoughts close.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
May 16: River
When I have time to myself to head into the woods and look for birds, one of my favorite places to go is Coastal Mountains Land Trust's Ducktrap River Preserve. While my husband was occupied with writing today, I woke up blissfully late, drove to Lincolnville, and hit the trail. Because of my late start the bird song was winding down for the day. Sun shone on the river, and as has often happened when the trees aren't dripping with birds, I crouched down on the mossy riverbank amid the ferns and simply watched the water.
In the past this exercise of living in the moment has brought me interesting rewards. Once a veery walked slowly out of the woods and came within ten yards of me. Another time a red-shouldered hawk flew low overhead, yelling at me. Sometimes an invisible winter wren will suddenly burst into his enchanting song across the river, the long serenade accompanying perfectly the rushing sound of the river. Often the drumming of a ruffed grouse can be heard like a heartbeat thrumming from deep within the woods behind me.
The river is not deep here, nor wide. Its gravel bed, clearly visible through sepia-toned water colored by tannin from the roots of conifers upstream, appeals to wild Atlantic salmon--the Ducktrap is one of eight remaining rivers that still hosts a (small) indigenous population of this endangered fish. The initial stretch of the northbound trail closely follows the river for about a quarter mile, offering several good vantage points to sit and absorb the beauty of the place. I won't say quiet beauty, because the trail there is still close to the speedway that is Route 52. But this morning was relatively quiet, except for a handful of warblers and the low "quork, quork" of a nearby raven.
The raven's call made me think of my husband--ravens were the theme of our wedding, and tomorrow's our seventh wedding anniversary. I'm sure he would much rather have been on that riverbank with me today, casting a fly into the current where I saw first one, then another fish rise above the surface of the water.
From the mossy banks
I watch fish rise in eddies.
Wish you were with me.
In the past this exercise of living in the moment has brought me interesting rewards. Once a veery walked slowly out of the woods and came within ten yards of me. Another time a red-shouldered hawk flew low overhead, yelling at me. Sometimes an invisible winter wren will suddenly burst into his enchanting song across the river, the long serenade accompanying perfectly the rushing sound of the river. Often the drumming of a ruffed grouse can be heard like a heartbeat thrumming from deep within the woods behind me.
The river is not deep here, nor wide. Its gravel bed, clearly visible through sepia-toned water colored by tannin from the roots of conifers upstream, appeals to wild Atlantic salmon--the Ducktrap is one of eight remaining rivers that still hosts a (small) indigenous population of this endangered fish. The initial stretch of the northbound trail closely follows the river for about a quarter mile, offering several good vantage points to sit and absorb the beauty of the place. I won't say quiet beauty, because the trail there is still close to the speedway that is Route 52. But this morning was relatively quiet, except for a handful of warblers and the low "quork, quork" of a nearby raven.
The raven's call made me think of my husband--ravens were the theme of our wedding, and tomorrow's our seventh wedding anniversary. I'm sure he would much rather have been on that riverbank with me today, casting a fly into the current where I saw first one, then another fish rise above the surface of the water.
From the mossy banks
I watch fish rise in eddies.
Wish you were with me.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
May 15: Chips and Guacamole
Many years ago I spent the January term of my junior year in college camping out in the Sonoran desert of western Arizona. Most of my days were spent hiking through the Buckskin Mountains assisting two geology majors with thesis work. We had a lot of fun exploring, but we also had work to do and we took it seriously. But even so, every few days we'd find ourselves quitting a little early and driving the 30+ bumpy miles on dirt roads and through dry desert washes into the nearest town, Parker, where we'd stock up on Corona (cheap so close to the Mexican border), tortilla chips, avocados, and guacamole mix. (And things to eat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, of course, although to be honest I can't bring to mind any other food item we ate on that trip.) These supplies were most essential to our psychological well-being. At the end of every dusty, tiring day, the first thing we did when we got back to camp was to mix up some guacamole, which we enjoyed with the chips and beer. Guacamole has never tasted so good, and we came to crave it like addicts.
Tonight my husband and I had dinner at a favorite restaurant, El Camino in Brunswick. El Camino prides itself on serving local ingredients in an authentic Mexican style. It does many things well, but the part I always look forward to the most is the first one--noshing on hand-fried tortilla chips sprinkled with sea salt and loaded with incredible homemade guacamole. The first bites of guac often send me back to those long-ago weeks in Arizona when at each day's end all we could think about was that first scoop of creamy avocado goodness washed down with a mouthful of Corona with lime. Those fond food memories are tinged with sadness--the friend who convinced me to join them on that trip passed away several years ago. But I think he'd be amused to know that the act of eating chips and guac frequently brings him to mind.
Chips, guacamole--
who would have thought they'd trigger
such strong memories.
Tonight my husband and I had dinner at a favorite restaurant, El Camino in Brunswick. El Camino prides itself on serving local ingredients in an authentic Mexican style. It does many things well, but the part I always look forward to the most is the first one--noshing on hand-fried tortilla chips sprinkled with sea salt and loaded with incredible homemade guacamole. The first bites of guac often send me back to those long-ago weeks in Arizona when at each day's end all we could think about was that first scoop of creamy avocado goodness washed down with a mouthful of Corona with lime. Those fond food memories are tinged with sadness--the friend who convinced me to join them on that trip passed away several years ago. But I think he'd be amused to know that the act of eating chips and guac frequently brings him to mind.
Chips, guacamole--
who would have thought they'd trigger
such strong memories.
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