January 31: Snow falling

A light snow has been falling through most of this last day of January. I can still see it falling, the swirling flakes illuminated within the column of light cast by a streetlight, a thin dusting of the purest white layering my car. Such a slow snowfall with so little accumulation--this is no storm, nothing truly dangerous, but the spirits of winter at their most benevolent, bringing us a taste of what can sometimes be a quiet and beautiful season. No doubt at some point a snow plow will come rumbling through to scrape the streets. But for now it's soothing to simply watch the mesmerizing flakes tumble through the light, then move back into the dark and fall to the frozen earth.

This dusting of snow--
tomorrow cat prints will bloom
across the white lawn.

January 30: Birch in the headlights

As I drove away from my office tonight, having just been dazzled by the vision of the waxing moon, Jupiter, and Venus all crowded together big and bright in the western sky, the sweep of my headlights briefly caught a young birch tree. As this many-trunked little tree loomed out of the dark before me, I was brought instantly back to earth. The tree looked like a stark white witch's hand with long, grasping fingers reaching up into the dark sky, the planet-riddled night.

White birch on dark night--
cold hand reaching for the stars,
and the cold moon too.

January 29: A Poem by Anne Porter

I heard an Anne Porter poem, "Winter Twilight," read by Garrison Keillor on "The Writer's Almanac" several days ago, and I can't get it out of my head. I think it resonates so strongly because it's very close to my own sensibility and aesthetic; without at all meaning to sound full of myself, I feel like I could have written that poem. All winter I've been looking up at the squirrel dreys (nests) wondering how to turn those big clumps of leaves into something poetic. And she did it so naturally, so perfectly. I think I would have enjoyed talking with her about her craft, although much of her poetry takes a more religious turn than my own. Alas, she passed away well before I had the chance to meet her, but I was fortunate enough to stay in her house once.

Anne Porter was the wife of the artist Fairfield Porter, whose work I much admire. In 2008 I attended Art Week, a retreat held on Great Spruce Head Island, which is still owned by the Porter family, on the other side of Penobscot Bay. A handful of artists and one other writer and I spent a wonderful week in what had been Anne and Fairfield's house, inspired by Anne's poetry (read by her niece Anina, who runs the retreat), Fairfield's art (including a painting of the great room where we spent most of our time, looking utterly unchanged, as well as the family of dragons he painted on the upper walls of that same great room), and brother Eliot's photography (his color bird photography was some of the first and best of its kind).

Ah, that's what I wish
I'd said about dreys, the moon.
But grateful she did.

January 28: Gulls and bagpipes

Walking the sidewalks of Portland waiting for my husband to finish up with an appointment, I could swear I heard the sound of live bagpipes playing "Scotland the Brave." Sure enough, as I got closer to the little park near Middle and Exchange Streets, the sound grew louder, until I could see a young man, standing behind a bench with a jar in front of him, playing the pipes. The music swelled and resonated in the space between the city buildings--bagpipes are not quiet instruments--yet people just walked on by, hardly giving him a second glance. Maybe he plays out there every day. I'm one-quarter Scottish via my paternal grandmother, so hearing this traditional Scottish tune always stirs my genes. I listened from about a block away, enjoying this unusual and not unpleasant din on the Portland streets. As he finished up, a flock of gulls flew overhead, giving voice as gulls do. As the last wailing notes of the pipes faded away in the chilly, late afternoon air, the gulls' cries seemed to prolong them in strange accompaniment.

He began another song, but I had to go meet my husband. I came back later when I had some cash on me, hoping to leave some money in his jar, but he was gone. Perhaps the bagpipes are too much even for the shoppers and street denizens of the Old Port. Or perhaps he'd played his repertoire. We were hit up for money three times as we walked around for an hour or so, but the piper was the only one I would have paid.

One wailing bagpipe
and a flock of crying gulls--
music amid noise.

January 27: Distortion

Driving home from a movie on a dark and stormy night, watching lights distort in the rain streaming down the car windows:

Streetlight flowering
through raindrops on the windshield,
then all dark again.

January 26: Conjunction

Last night as I left work the waxing crescent moon was upturned to catch bright Venus hovering just above. The pairing of two such distinctive and radiant heavenly bodies was striking. I can easily imagine how such a conjunction might have inspired a story or two back in the days when both were associated with deities. Was the goddess of love sparring with the moon goddess over a mortal love interest? Were they conspiring together on some celestial plot?

Lofty mythology aside, the image that came to me when I first noticed them was of that cup and ball game we had when we were kids, the one where you had to catch a ball in a wooden cup that you held by a handle. I imagined Venus having bounced off the curved edge of the moon into outer space, now on her rebound. Will the moon catch her? Or will she go slipping past into the dark, fringed edge of trees and out of sight?

Moon and Venus close
enough to spark ideas
in the cold night sky.

January 25: Turkeys in the woods

Hiking on Ragged Mountain this morning, we followed several lines of turkey tracks up a dirt road. Judging from the tracks, which proceeded straight up the road, these were determined turkeys who knew where they were going, no wandering out of line or straying into the woods. We saw no actual turkeys (though we did flush a grouse), just their tracks and scat--what they left behind.

Later, tromping around on the snowy crust in the woods, we came upon a fungus known as turkey tail looking particularly colorful against the snow, much as actual turkey feathers would have. This clump is barely larger than the size of one turkey track:

These colorful, layered fans are only a small part of the entire fungus, with most of the organism hidden within the bark of the tree on which it's living. Also, I think it's a little unusual to see a turkey tail in "full bloom" surrounded by snow, just as it would be to see a tom turkey fanning his tail this time of year. As with the birds and the simple etchings of their tracks, what we're seeing is not the whole story. 

Written on the snow:

beginnings of wild stories

about wild turkeys.

January 24: Cat in the house

Our new cat Rooney is settling in. Ironically, we think that boarding her while we were away last week has helped. While she seemed to enjoy her three-story cat condo with its view of the ocean and several bird feeders, as well as the cat-devoted staff at the feline boarding home, she seemed even happier to be back in her home of only a month. Because she was a stray prior to moving in, perhaps she wasn't sure she was going to be coming back here. But now that she's back, she's finding special places around the house to curl up, including Paul's lap, or the back of the couch in the living room. She has little conversations with us. She's become one of the family, learning our routines. Once more a little animal inhabits our house.

No longer empty,
this house where a cat awaits
our nightly return.

January 23: Return

After our week relaxing in Florida, it was difficult to wake up this morning not only to go back to work, but also to venture out into the ice and snow that had nicely accumulated while we were away. I was cheered by a small flock of robins glimpsed on a berry bush. But when I arrived at my office, I was irrationally saddened to see that one of my bird feeders had blown off the window and was buried in snow. Moving from one habitat to another, vastly different one feels like a form of culture shock, making me wonder if, as an animal, I'm truly suited for this cold place where I was born.

In the snowy bush,
dark robins from Newfoundland
more at home than I.

January 22: Babies on the plane

On the first leg of our flight home, I was trying to read my new Nevada Barr book (signed by her wonderful self yesterday at Bookmania! in Stuart, FL), as well as follow the first half of the AFC championship game (go Pats!) on my husband's iPad. Unfortunately, we were sandwiched between two rows of families traveling with babies. One baby was quiet, but the other shrieked with a piercing cry throughout the flight at a decibel level even the music in my earphones couldn't drown out. I realized what it must feel like to live in an osprey's nest.

Not an osprey's cry
but close enough to make me
long for the ocean.

January 20: Beach

Thanks to the miracles of modern technology, I'm writing this on the beach--a white sand beach littered with shells and washed by a vigorous, turquoise-waved surf. Some guys were actually surfing earlier, and several are out here fishing. I've been reading a book in the sun while occasionally lifting the binoculars to check out a passing bird. Paul tallied our 100th species this morning. Pelicans sail by, as do small flocks of royal terns. Ruddy turnstones pick along the water's edge, and sanderlings run before the foam. Ring-billed gulls wait near people eating, hoping for a handout. Earlier, a group of dolphins swam past, paralleling the shore. I get up now and then for periodic knee-deep forays into the surf to feel that tug of the water pulling the sand from beneath my feet and tumbling shells. I found a perfect moon snail shell. I can't remember such a peaceful day in many months. Meanwhile, we've learned of a big snowstorm back home.

Lullaby of surf,
sun, and seabirds. For now, mine,
though I'm made of snow.