April 30: Downtown Hawks

For a lunch meeting on this beautiful, blue sky day, we didn't want to be cooped up inside, so we brought our sandwiches to the bright grass of Camden's Harbor Park. The ruffled harbor glittered before us in the sun and wind, its docks all in order, waiting for boats. Unwrapped from winter plastic, the windjammer fleet was waiting, too. A lone sailor hung from a seat high in the rigging of one of these grand old ships, helping to ready her for summer cruises.

While we ate and talked, a song sparrow serenaded us with his sincere song from a bush a few feet away. The wind gusted in our hair, and every now and then a townie pigeon would sail overhead. It took a few seconds to register that one of these "pigeons" was, in fact, a hawk. Even as it zipped by on the wind, its flap-flap-glide flight pattern revealed it to be an accipiter; its size indicated sharp-shinned hawk. Cool.

A few minutes later, another one cruised overhead. Then, a bit distant, another hawk, bigger than the sharpies, with a dark pattern under the wings--perhaps a red-tailed hawk? It was too high and fast for me to get a good enough look to be sure, though a veteran hawk watcher could have identified it from twenty times the distance.

Later, as I was running an errand in the center of town, I looked up to see an osprey flying steadily northward. Of course, ospreys nest in Camden Harbor, so this may have been a local bird heading to the lake for some fishing. But it certainly struck me as good fortune to see four hawks in the heart of Camden in about an hour's time. I guess that's part of the reason why we live here, that we have such opportunities. As if the shining water of the river pouring into the harbor and the mountain backdrop bearing a soft mosaic of spring's first leaves and buds weren't enough.

Embraced by the wind,
migrant hawks sail over boats
whose wings are still trimmed.

April 29: Fickle

That old Maine saying, "If you don't like the weather, wait a few minutes" was carried to an extreme as we experienced over the course of today alternating and varying periods of full-on sun and snow (and sometimes both at the same time). Now, at day's end, the sun's shining gloriously, wind wildly rocks all the tree tops, and grey storm clouds glower on the horizon. The sky is still ready to give us anything it chooses at a moment's notice. Young women were scuffing flip-flops in snow, someone caught a big trout near my office, dandelions have invaded lawns, chickadees parked themselves in my bird feeder as snow fell--each probably as confounded as the other by the day's shifting weather.

Snow, sun, wind, storm clouds--
day's shifting moods affect mine,
fickleness of spring.

April 28: Raindrops

Last night as I was falling asleep, I thought I heard the cat purring loudly next to the bed. I asked my husband if he could hear her, and he said all he could hear was the rain. It wasn't till a little later, when the cat jumped up on the bed and began purring, that I realized that the noise I'd heard wasn't a contented feline but was, in fact, rain drumming the roof, lulling me with its low, soothing cadence.

I thought of this when, laid low by allergies, I was trying to nap this afternoon. Rain was coming down again, only this time it sounded like a military parade drum-roll as it rhythmically tapped the propane tanks outside the bedroom window. Several years ago I recall awakening on a summer night to the sound of cars driving on wet streets, thinking I was hearing waves crash on my grandparents' beach. Rain can be so many kinds of music. As Eric Clapton sang, "The sky is crying, look at the tears rolling down the street..."

While the clouds were pouring and purring a rainy lullaby on our roof, snow fell silently northwest of here. Friends in Vermont report waking up to snow this morning.

Rain pours down, it purrs,
curls its tail around our house,
lulls us back to sleep.

April 27: Waves

In a recent conversation with a friend about a surfing film festival he had attended, we both agreed that surfing movies were cool to watch because big waves are so fascinating. That's a simplification of the complex feelings many of us have for waves, which are truly energy made visible, manifestations of the action of wind upon the face of the waters. Growing up near the ocean, I have long loved watching waves.  My grandmother and I used to lie in bed and count to see if every seventh wave was the biggest. I would keep my bedroom window open in all seasons so that I could hear the crash of the waves upon the rocky shore, the rhythmic breath of the ocean. I paste a copy of Hokusai's 18th-century wood-block print "The Great Wave off Kanagawa"--an iconic image that has resonates deeply for me--on the cover of all my journals. Look at the loving detail with which he represents the wave's foam, the curling crest of the wave like a bunch of reaching claws or an opening mouth about to engulf the small boats below:

And therein lies my personal problem with waves. Fascination is the flip-side of fear. Ever since I was tumbled by a huge wave as a kid at Sand Beach in Acadia National Park, I have been afraid of waves. This fear has expressed itself all these years in my dreams. When I was a child, I would dream that the waves on my grandparents' beach were rising over the bank to carry away the house with me in it. In addition to that specific recurring dream, my subconscious shares with me on a regular basis many variations on the theme. In some dreams I'm swimming, and high-crested waves are carrying me away from shore or threatening to drown me. In others, I'm onshore and a wave sweeps over me. Last night I dreamt that I was watching some big rollers crash on a beach. The water was transformed into muscular blue fists--you could feel the power as they drew themselves up before pounding the shore. I was marveling from a distance at how amazing they were when suddenly a rogue wave lifted me up from behind. I had just enough time to think that I'd be lucky to survive its hurling me onto the beach and tumbling me around. Then I woke up. 

I guess it's a good thing I didn't go to the surfing movie fest, if just talking about waves gave me such a dream. Imagine what nightmarish images all those translucent curling wave shots, all those surfers tumbling into the foam, would have planted in my subconscious. 

Waves roll through my dreams,

curling around my childhood,

washing all away.

April 26: Shadbush

As I was driving away from my office today on an errand, I stopped the car in wonder at a beautiful flowering tree that I had somehow completely overlooked in front of the building. Granted, the tree is not outside my windows. And most of the flower-bearing branches are well above my line of sight. But still, you'd think I'd have noticed a 30-foot-high tree laden with sweet, white blossoms! The sun shining on it made all the white petals glow. The tree stood there like a revelation, an amazing artifact of spring. How could I have missed it all the years I've been working at the Land Trust? What's even worse is that I walked under that very tree earlier in the day without even noticing all those flowers over my head.

Something about seeing a leafless branch that has burst into blossom always gets me. It's as if the spring air had tugged them out of the wood, a small miracle. I think this particular miracle is a shadbush, though the shadbush trees I'm used to seeing in the woods are usually much smaller. The flowers look right, however, and "Forest Trees of Maine" says that shadbush (or serviceberry) can grow to 40 feet.

The shadbush blooms when shad are running. Shad are anadromous fish similar to alewives, so whenever I see the shadbush in bloom I know alewives will be running soon through Great Salt Bay and up the fish ladder in Damariscotta Mills. If a flowering tree is a small miracle, the alewife run is a big one. So this glorious tree is just the beginning...

Pulled from wood by sun,
shadbush blossoms remind me
of spring's miracles.

April 25: Rain Crow

I chose not to bring my iPod and earphones on my run this morning along the river so that I wouldn't miss any new birds singing. This time of year it seems like I hear something different on each run. Sure enough, amid the usual suspects--house finch, goldfinches, titmouse, cardinal--I heard the dry trill of several chipping sparrows. They like to hang out near my office, so I imagine I'll be hearing more from them. Upriver along Route 105 I was delighted to hear a red-bellied woodpecker in someone's yard. Haven't heard one of those in a while. But best yet was hearing a bird calling "cu-cu-cu-cu-cu-cu" in a wooded stretch along Molyneaux Road as I headed downhill toward the old fish hatchery. I stopped in my tracks and fruitlessly peered into the trees. I knew that sound: black-billed cuckoo. Along with its cousin the yellow-billed cuckoo, it's known as the rain crow.

The black-billed cuckoo is a fairly common bird around here, but very shy and so seldom seen. I've followed its distinctive call--a sort of breathy, bell-like, monotonous intonation--through the woods for a long time and never seen the bird. Other times, one will appear right in front of me for a minute or two but never make a sound. They come and go with silent magic. The bird I heard this morning is a remarkably early arrival to the area, but this spring everything has been early. Yesterday at the Arboretum I saw a caterpillar tent already crawling with tiny caterpillars. Caterpillars, especially tent caterpillars, creep me out. The fact that they come from something that looks like it was made by a spider doesn't help. So I particularly enjoy seeing (or even just hearing) a cuckoo, because cuckoos love to eat caterpillars. They can chow down a tent full in one sitting. My husband and I have stood ten feet away from a cuckoo while it was engrossed in eating its way through a bunch of caterpillars on an apple tree. Good bird.

The cuckoo of cuckoo clock fame is the European common cuckoo. I distinctly remember hearing one sing in Scotland when I was a child on a visit there with my grandparents. While the bird itself was rather plain, I was excited to have found it, because it sounded just like the clock in my grandmother's kitchen: "cu-coo, cu-coo." Our cuckoos are supposed to warn of imminent rain, hence the nickname. Thankfully, the bird's prediction didn't seem to apply to today, which remained gloriously sunny till late afternoon. The week ahead is supposed to be a wet one, though. Apparently when cuckoos get wet they sometimes have to air out their soft feathers by spreading out their wings in the sun like a cormorant. So it's not that the rain crow likes rain--he's just understandably sensitive to it.

Invisible bird
intones his warning of rain,
stops me in my tracks.

Yellow-billed Cuckoo photographed by me on Cape Cod in 2003.

April 24: Crows Chasing Things

Wherein my fascination with crows continues... Early this morning I drove to Augusta to co-lead a bird walk at the Viles (formerly Pine Tree State) Arboretum in Augusta as part of the Friends of Baxter State Park's annual meeting. On the 45-minute drive, I saw a tom turkey in full display on top of a hill in Union. I wished him luck. I also watched a crow in hot pursuit of a mourning dove. As I drove along, it chased the petrified dove across three lawns. I couldn't figure out what was going on there.

At the Arboretum I enjoyed a brief but lovely walk on a warm, sunny Spring morning with a nice group of people. Tree swallows swarmed the bird box area behind the Arboretum offices, filling the air with their liquid songs. Love was in the air. Literally. Each box sported a pair of birds. I flushed a hen turkey near the rock garden. Ruby-crowned kinglets sang their surprisingly loud and complicated songs. We had close-up views of an obliging pine warbler, whose yellow head and throat caught the light. For the first time this spring I saw and/or heard five species of sparrow: chipping, Savannah, song, white-throated, and swamp. A Virginia rail responded to a recording by calling back from amid the cattails. I watched a pair of crows sweetly preening each other. Later, I observed two crows (the same ones?) dive-bombing a vulture, a much larger bird. A good morning.

On my drive home at day's end, I spotted a harrier dipping low over a field... being harangued by a persistent crow. At least crows seem to be democratic about what they chase. Drive away anything that is not a crow seems to be the rule. I wanted to capture that inclusiveness in today's poem. It might not seem very interesting, but it's just subtle. Like a crow.

Crow chases a dove,
crow chases a harrier,
crows chase a vulture.