February 28: Florid Birds

There's nothing like some tropical color to lift the spirits. We spent most of today soaking up sun and local color at "Ding" Darling National Wildlife Refuge here on Sanibel Island: herons of all shapes and sizes, white ibises, wood storks, brown and white pelicans, roseate spoonbills, ospreys, shorebirds, ducks, gulls... We took it all in--ibis's scarlet bill, yellow-crowned night-heron's golden eye, snowy egret's "golden slippers," spoonbill's unreal pink--and then capped off our day with an incredible sunset over a sandy beach on the Gulf. One of those days that's difficult to put into words, so I'll throw in a few photos after my haiku:

Don't hide those hot pinks
amid twisted mangrove roots--
bring us rose glasses.

White Ibis

Snowy Egret

Roseate Spoonbills

February 27: Arrival in Florida

We are currently enjoying evening one of our week on the southwest Gulf Coast of Florida. Since we arrived in the dark, our only clues that we're not in Maine anymore, Toto, were the roadside palm trees and the flat landscape. Clear night skies, too--Mars straight overhead and a bright waxing moon. It's unseasonably cool--mid-60s now--but compared to the Northeast, we aren't complaining.

We'll spend our first three nights on Sanibel Island, a place we've enjoyed in the past very much despite the touristy build-up over the years. You reach the island via a modern toll bridge, but a friend has told us of the good old days when you had to take a ferry to get here. The lighthouse blinked to the south as we crossed the bridge in the dark, and then we turned onto the main drag to get to our little motel, a typical beachy place with a giant bed and a tiny bathroom, within striking range of a restaurant where Paul has indulged in the past in the all-you-can-eat shrimp special. True to form, he consumed three rounds tonight and we both left happy.

The seas, as best as we could tell, looked calm here--it's so strange to think of the tsunamis hitting Chile, Mexico, Hawaii. How blessed we are to be here with few worries, blithely planning a day of birding, beach, and maybe some fishing for Paul tomorrow.

Wake to snow in Maine.
By miracles of travel,
palm trees in the dark.

February 26: Aftermath

Two of my co-workers driving in this morning on Route 105 had to pass under a fallen tree that was only held up by power lines. One of them didn't have power when he left home. Many homes in Camden also don't have power, and Internet service is down at the office, my house, and according to Time Warner, "all across Maine and New Hampshire." Roofs blew off buildings in Rockland. Tree limbs of all sizes lie scattered across the landscape, wreckage everywhere. My neighbors lawn once again hosts an intermittent branch of the river. The deluge of rain washed away almost all the remaining snow, leaving behind muddy lawns full of sodden leaves, road gravel, and wind-blown bits of trash. It's not a pretty sight.

But as I drove to the library (for an Internet connection), a big patch of placid blue sky peeked out from behind the clouds. The harbor, too, seems to be at rest now. A hint of calm after the chaos.

The sky's calm blue eye
looks down on this mess below,
unblinking, removed.

February 25: Waterfall

When I was a kid, I loved to be allowed to stay up late and watch "Fantasy Island." I loved the combination of drama and magic, knowing each couple would leave the island with everything all worked out thanks to the mysterious powers of the dashing, exotic Ricardo Montalban.

Driving below the western slope of Mount Battie this afternoon in the (still) pouring rain, I noticed a torrent of water streaming down the steep rocky slope to fall on the talus below. I was immediately brought back to the opening credits of "Fantasy Island"--the aerial view of the island that featured a breathtakingly long waterfall cascading through the lush green tropical forest. The bare, cold rock face of Mount Battie is hardly equivalent to that snapshot of Hawaii I used to savor every Thursday night. But for just a moment, Mount Battie offered up an epic bit of landscape.

Rock-skin shedding rain,
day's dramas washing away--
mountain waterfall.

February 24: Snowdrops

Photo by David Paloch via Wikipedia Commons.

I didn't see the flowers myself, but a woman I was visiting today said that snowdrops were already blooming in the shelter of her house. She also said that she'd discovered little Johnny-jump-ups still blooming under a thin crust of snow. Outside her window, a continuous stream of chickadees buzzed her bird feeder and cracked open seeds in the shelter of a rain-darkened apple tree. Rain washed the windows. The chill drear of the weather made the rocking chair set by her old cast-iron cookstove feel like the most perfect place in the world to be at that moment.

Her son had been out on the lake on his four-wheeler earlier that day, and she'd been very anxious for him--our recent warm, wet weather has made the ice rotten and unpredictable in spots. But now he was back on land, safe for the day. I noticed some ice fishermen standing out on the ice in the pouring rain, waiting for their flags to pop up. Not quite sure what the fun is in that. Maybe it was made exciting by the tinge of danger offered by the wide strip of water that had opened up along the shore's edge.

One of my neighbors around the corner tells me that she too has snowdrops blooming near her mailbox, and that come spring she'll divide some to share with me so that next spring I too can enjoy the wonder of flowers blooming while there's still snow on the ground.

Snowdrops in the mud.
Last fishermen on the lake
brave the rotten ice.

February 23: Red Birds

A twelve-hour workday doesn't leave a lot of creative brain energy left. I just got home, and all I want to do is go straight to bed. But first, this haiku...

The highlights of my day: a cardinal wolf-whistling from the bushes when I got out my car at the office this morning, and a rosy-breasted robin cluck-cluck-clucking away from the top of a tree when I left the office for a series of meetings late this afternoon. My daylight hours were bracketed by these red birds, and despite random flurries of snow throughout the day, I couldn't help but think of the birds as signs of spring.

Chortling robin,
lusty, lipstick red cardinal,
unfazed by snow squalls.

February 22: Gray

Color of the sky: soft billows of cloud starting to darken with rain. And the river, rushing onward in the flat gunmetal light of the afternoon. And my cashmere sweater, donned today to soothe my spirit after I woke up feeling tired, cranky, and achey but not quite sick. Gray has always been my favorite color to wear when I need a lift, my comfort clothing. To accompany comfort food, which tonight will be macaroni and cheese with lobster bits mixed in. 

In this mood on this kind of day, I think of the James Taylor song "Another Grey Morning" from his album "JT," the first record I ever bought. A portion of the lyrics, which capture a gray mood so poignantly: 

She hears the baby crying downstairs

She hears the foghorn calling out across the sound

Repetition in the morning air

Is just too much to bear

And no one seems to care

If another day goes creeping by

Empty and ashamed

Like an old unwanted memory

That no one will claim

The clouds with their heads on the ground

She's gonna have to come down

The woman in that song is clearly depressed, and I most definitely am not, but I'm tired enough that I can sort of relate. I left work a couple of hours early today to take a nap and recharge a little, to make it through the rest of my work week--because it's not good when you're exhausted and it's only Monday. So now I'm going to curl up in my sleeping bag with my snoring old cat and let my thoughts drift away with the day's last gray light. The clouds look like they would make good pillows.

Not winter, not spring,

not sunny but not raining--

year's gray area.