March 31: Clouds Passing

Although the night sky is hidden by clouds now, earlier today we breathed a big sigh of relief when the rain finally stopped. The clouds began to pass eastward over the mountains, leaving behind sodden soils and a swollen river. Someone said we'd gotten 11 inches of rain this March, when we normally get about three. For a while sunlight shone into my office, illuminating the room in what seemed like a new and wonderful way. I wanted to stretch out in my rug like a cat. We exclaimed over patches of blue sky.

This respite from the elements lasted till dark, so I was able to run outside after work. Everywhere the earth seemed to be celebrating the passing of the rain. Birds warbled from budding trees: song sparrows, blackbirds, house finches, and robins--the first singing robins I've heard this spring. People were out running, walking, biking in that brief window before darkness. The river jubilantly spilled over its banks all along Route 105 and into town, creating tree-filled ponds, foreshortened lawns, wild rows of foaming waves, and new side streams. The air was redolent with that fresh lake water smell I associate with fishing. As I ran past the view of Mount Megunticook along 105, the tail end of the clouds was sweeping up its western flank like a vaporous scarf. Goodbye, rain!

Draped by cloud mantle,
mountain becomes resting girl
lulled by robin's song.

Like the mountain, I too can now rest, satisfied with my day's activities, uplifted by the birdsong of spring.

March 30: The Great Unconformity

A birder friend, Bryan Pfeiffer, recently hiked for several days by himself in the Grand Canyon. (You can see a beautiful one-minute slide show of his adventure at his blog, The Daily Wing.) Although I have visited the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, I wasn't fortunate enough to hike more than 1/2 mile down into the canyon, not far enough on the trail we followed to reach The Great Unconformity. A photo in Bryan's slideshow brought back my long-held fascination with this geological landmark that I first learned about in college geology classes and still hope to see someday in person.

Some background: An unconformity is the division between a younger rock layer and a much older one--a gap in time representing loss, because what it means is that there is no geologic record of the period between the two layers. For whatever reason no sediment was deposited during this time, or what was deposited was somehow washed or blown away. The cool thing is that when you put your hand on an unconformity, you're spanning millions of years. The Great Unconformity in the Grand Canyon represents a missing gap in Earth's history of 250 million to 1.2 billion years--an unfathomable chunk of this planet's history. It's mind-blowing, really. Above the Great Unconformity is sandstone with fossils of shells; below is Vishnu Schist, which formed in a time when the only creatures around to leave a fossil record were bacteria. 

What I didn't remember from those geology classes so long ago (though just a blink of an eye in geologic time) is that the Great Unconformity exists around the world. The Grand Canyon just offers some of the best exposures of it. 

Rock above, below;

one hand spans a billion years.

We are all mere dust.

 

March 29: Water Water Everywhere

Yesterday's forecast was for 100% chance of rain today, and for once it was accurate. It poured all day; it's still pouring. And amid the rain drops it drizzles and drips. The spillway over the dam is churning up some serious whitewater. Roadside ditches along Route 105 were running high and full by late afternoon. Crossing the Megunticook River on Rawson Avenue, I could see that the water was almost level with the lawns. Filled to the brim. Water's cascading off Mount Battie, at least what you could see of it earlier under its moist cap of fog and cloud. Now in the dark there's a roar outside that's a combination of wind, rain on the roof, and river's rush. Granted that river is only about 20 feet wide, but it can be loud when the water's high. Makes me thankful that we're above the flood plain.

This morning in Camden Harbor the combination of rainstorm and full moon had tugged the high tide almost level with the granite blocks of Harbor Park. Where the river crashed over the waterfall into the harbor, high spumes of white water raged and sprayed. (Similar water dramas were playing out at the two dams of the Knox Mill--wild enough to make you stop the car and marvel at the sheer force of all that water.) The harbor was about as full as it could be without spilling over into the parking lot or park, without wetting anyone's feet through the planks of the harborside walkway. It was as if the sea were barely restraining itself from breaking loose and rising into town.

Brimming bowl of sea
brought to boil by the full moon.
Springtime restlessness.

March 28: Coyote Window

A woman I know who lives on Ducktrap Mountain in Lincolnville takes trip-wire photographs at night of the animals hanging out in her woods. She recently shared a photograph of a coyote that I liked and saved to my computer desktop.

Photo by Corelyn Senn

So on my desktop now is a thumbnail image of this photo (much smaller than above), a study in grey and black: tiny coyote amid the vertical lines of tree trunks with a backdrop of darkness--a miniature window into a strange nighttime forest wherein lurks a prowling coyote. And other beasts--bobcats, foxes, ten-point buck standing before you like something out of a dream. I might keep the image on my desktop if just for this slightly spooky little glimpse into a world that gave birth to Little Red Riding-hood and tales of Coyote the trickster. Though who knows what will happen with this wily creature pinned to my screen like an icon, what affect it might have on my work as I type away with those untamed eyes upon me. I've always been a little afraid of the dark, and knowing what's out there isn't always a comfort.  But sometimes what unsettles us is what's most inspiring.

Prowling coyote--
this night creature on my screen
from dream, fairy tale.

March 27: Cold Run

Right now the thermometer says it's in the low 20s, but with wind chill, I'm sure it's really about ten degrees colder. So despite the day's sunny aspect, it's understandable why I debated for a while about whether to run outside or hit the Y this morning. Laziness won out over bodily comfort--I didn't feel like trekking across town to the Y to run in circles--so I bundled up and went outside. And then promptly turned around and came back inside for yet another layer. The sight of a budding daffodil in the yard did encourage me, however, that I had made the right decision opting "out." If that tender young flower could handle the cold, so could I.

As I began my slow plod up the street, I was encouraged to hear song sparrows singing. Focusing on their songs--and not the cold air searing my lungs or the wind buffeting my exposed ears--helped. As I moved through the crisp, beautiful, blue-sky morning, song sparrows were singing on both sides of the road. I felt like I was running along a song sparrow parade route. Small flocks of them scattered from the side of the road like wind-tossed leaves. Sparrows at every step, a song from every corner, each one a slight variation on the same theme.

A cold morning run
serenaded by sparrows--
each step a new song.

On one lawn, a small flock of robins poked around and clucked. This distracted me enough to make it up the biggest hill on my intended route. As I reached the relatively sheltered, tree-lined corridor of Cobb Road, it got even better. Birds were singing everywhere: song sparrows, a house finch, several downy woodpeckers, strident blue jays, goldfinches, more song sparrows, more robins, titmice, chickadees, trilling juncos, and the beautiful, liquid spring song of a lone brown creeper. Despite the shell of ice on the little patch of marsh, a single red-winged blackbird sang, undaunted. Two crows in a big oak silently watched me pass. As I headed home down Washington Street, flocks of sparrows seemed to linger in every bush, and I wished, not for the first time, that there were a way to run with binoculars. In one sunny spot, a male downy woodpecker's red head spot caught the light and shone like a little beacon. Back on my own street, golden-crowned kinglet songs floated overhead. And before I knew it, I was slogging down the sidewalk to my oh-so-warm house, grateful to the birds for having escorted me all the way through my chilly run.

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 25: Window

I left work late tonight feeling brain-weary. Driving through the deep blue twilight, heading not home but into town to complete one final errand, my eyes were caught by the comforting sight of a yellow-lit window glowing in a little house tucked against the dark bulk of Mount Battie. That illuminated square promised warmth and rest. For a moment, I wished that were my home. For some reason, no other window on that street offered quite the same welcoming glow. My emotions had been manipulated by a sort of living Thomas Kincaide scene. Sometimes it's OK to give in to that kind of thing.

Twilit, chilly night.
How comforting the window's
glowing yellow square.