March 31: GPS

Driving home from Portland tonight, watching the GPS screen (I wasn't doing the driving!), it occurred to me that when you only focus on the screen, all you get are a network of lines that don't even show all the little side roads. What you don't see: the house where someone I know lives, that great restaurant we stop at sometimes, osprey nests, several fields featuring flocks of turkeys, where my grandmother's trailer used to be (now a car detailing shop), the turn-off to a good farm stand in the summer, big bare oak tree on a hillside, a trailhead to a good hike, one of Paul's favorite fishing spots, more homes of people we know, the pond where some buffleheads are still hanging out, a wetland where we heard peepers, a view of the moon, Venus, and Jupiter...

The way home reduced
to a single orange line
across a black screen.

March 30: Matched pair

A pair of geese--probably the same pair as last year--has a nest near my office. I think it's somewhere along the shore of the river near the access road to the Seabright Dam, but I haven't wanted to go seeking it out. I'm sure the constant traffic of town vehicles to access the dam, dog walkers, fishermen, and then in warmer weather, swimmers, harasses them enough. But while I've conscientiously kept my distance, I've been very aware of their renewed presence this past week. One or both of them always seem to be there, beady black eyes on the lookout, those sleek black heads and necks every so often rising like periscopes on the lookout. They probably pay as much attention to our goings-on as we do theirs. There's something I find inexplicably comforting about their presence, despite their aura of intense alertness. Perhaps grazing animals of any sort--and these big birds do seem to spend most of their time heads down, poking around in the grass--have a pastoral effect on a landscape.

Our neighbors, the geese,
keep a close watch on us all.
Eggs are so fragile.

March 29: Snow on daffodils

These early spring snowfalls can be painful, especially if you've been teased by "real" spring weather already--air like warm breath on the back of your neck that made you sweat, that whispered sweet nothings about swelling leaf buds and opening flowers. We woke this morning to more snow falling, though accumulation was minimal. They call this late snow "poor man's fertilizer," because it's supposed to somehow help the greening. Once it melts, of course. And my lawn does look like it's reviving a bit.

In our garden right now, bright green shoots of chives look positively savory. Bulbs--lilies and tulips--are sending forth an advance guard of greenery. The rosy tips of peonies are poking through the surface of the soil. And I already had to pull up some dandelions. But the view from our front step, looking up at Mount Battie, resonates with the misplaced glory of the season past: the mountain's crags and ledges frosted with snow. The white ridgeline of larger, higher Mount Megunticook, visible up the street, is even more dramatic. I feel like we're living right on the threshold between two seasons struggling for power, winter on one side and spring on the other. What makes it bearable, what makes it possible to enjoy the delicate beauty of the snowy mountains despite my longing for heat, is that I know spring will eventually win out.

Daffodils' green necks
barely bend beneath the snow.
They too wait for sun.

March 28: Snow pellets

This morning, the office phoebe returned. This afternoon, a co-worker and I were mesmerized watching as a light snowfall shifted from big loose flakes to pellets of ice that rolled off the shingled roof like thousands of tiny white marbles. This random snow shower didn't linger; no snow clings to the grass. And now it's raining. One of those raw days I'm thankful to be inside, under a solid, secure roof.

Roof over our heads
easily sheds snow pellets,
and later, the rain.

March 26: Red Buds

The world was in motion today. Gusty wind created white caps on the small patch of the river by my office. Branches swirled. Crows swept past the windows. Downtown, everyone was rushing on the sidewalks to get to where they were going, in out of the wind and cold. With so much kinetic energy in the air, focusing on one thing was a challenge. Yet for a moment, while paused at the bank's drive-up window of all places, my eye fixed on something that stood out in the bleak, windy woods: a maple tree red with budding flowers.

Humming now with sap,
maple boughs push forth red buds.
I can be patient.

March 25: Small town

My husband and I just got back from a memorial service that filled the Camden Opera House, standing room only. I'm not exaggerating much when I say that almost everyone I know in Camden was in attendance. My husband and I were there because Don was a key member of the Rotary club I belong to, a genuinely kind person with a lively mind whose civic-minded life I greatly admired. People were joking that if Don had been there this afternoon, he'd have wanted all of us to vote on something, to get something accomplished for the community. The memorial was certainly better attended than many town meetings I've attended. 

The memorial was a moving experience, with many stories shared by Don's brothers. One of them commented on how everywhere he's been in the past week since Don's passing--the grocery store, the library, a play, a concert, the dump--he's run into someone offering condolences and asking how he's doing. After talking to dozens of people, I left feeling very grateful to live in the same small town where my mother was born, a place where I know that if I need the support of my community, it will be there, in the post office, the corner grocery, the bookstore... Yes, as they say, everyone knows your business in a small town, for better or worse. But there can be much comfort in that, in being part of a true web of human connections.

His simple mantra:

What can I do to help you?

And, Always give thanks.

 

 

March 24: Raking leaves

Because the fair weather has persisted, my husband and I chose today to commence our annual Raking of the Leaves. The day-long activity kept us warm in the chillier air, and the lawns and flower beds now look ready for spring's touch. The lilac and quince bushes already boast fat leaf buds, and tulip leaves push up here and there like green flags waving on the season. We uncovered a few previously undiscovered snow drops and crocuses. We also uncovered quite a few curled up woolly bear caterpillars, which had undoubtedly been hibernating in the heaps of dead leaves around the yard. Knowing the weather is supposed to get even more seasonable soon--i.e. much colder--we tried to put them in places where they'd continue to be protected from the elements.

Don't be fooled. Hang tight,
woolly bear, until spring is
really here to stay.

March 23: Litter

Sometimes on beaches we'll come across driftwood or dead trees bedecked with found buoys that washed up on shore. A "buoy tree" is a great way to clean up all the flotsam scattered across a beach and make something decorative, even sculptural, from the litter, especially when you don't have the means to carry all that trash off island. I thought of this today when I drove past a roadside brush pile in a grassy vacant lot. Someone had obviously put in some effort to clean up the lot, making a big heap of fallen branches and other detritus. What makes the brush pile distinctive are the discarded bottles and cans stuck on the ends of all the branches poking out. They make the pile somehow look both trashy and artistic at the same time. Someone must have decided that simply clearing the field wasn't enough, that creating such an installation (mixed media: wood, aluminum, plastic) was more interesting than simply tossing all those empties into a trash bag.

No longer mere trash,
these colorful cans are now
parts of a sculpture.

March 22: Suddenly

I swear they weren't there this morning. Of course, I was distracted because I thought I'd heard my first phoebe of spring, so maybe I missed them. They definitely weren't there yesterday. But this afternoon I suddenly noticed that the coltsfoot was blooming under the white pine outside our office--our first wildflower of the season. Perhaps the day's freakish 80-degree weather enticed the multitudes of yellow blossoms up through the pine needles in record time.

Later, I ran sluggishly across town, my asthmatic lungs unaccustomed to the heat. As I neared my destination, however, my pace picked up. I could hear a loud chorus of peepers in Lily Pond, behind the Y. They weren't there a couple of nights ago. We drove home the long way, through Aldermere Farm, with windows down so we could hear them in full force. A hot pink sunset was settling over the pond as we drove past, and a flock of geese grazed in the pasture. If the songs of frogs can make our spirits soar so easily, imagine how the female tree frogs must feel.

Light, warmth, and hormones--
simple recipe to thrill
hearts of frogs, and us.

March 21: Perfect sunset

Someone told me a very funny story at the end of a reception on this sultry evening, so I left in high spirits, open to joy. I was wearing flip-flops on this second day of spring. Jupiter and Venus hung together, bright above the red glow of sunset. In the field next to where my car was parked, I could hear the twittering of displaying male woodcocks. I stood by the field for several minutes listening. Off to the east I could see red Mars: a planet trifecta. When a bird landed, in the pause between aerial displays he sat in the field for awhile calling "peent, peent" loudly enough to hear over my car engine. Spring magic.

Vernal conjunctions:
three planets, several woodcocks,
and me, observing.

March 20: Vernal activity

Today's the official first day of spring, the vernal equinox. (And yesterday was the official "ice out" day for Megunticook Lake.) From here on out, we enjoy more daylight than darkness. Energized by this transition (and a big mug of green tea), I sang loudly along with the car stereo this morning as I drove up the coast to a meeting. A warm spring haze softened the contours of the Camden Hills and blurred the islands out in the bay. A good morning to be alive on the coast of Maine.

Later this afternoon, when I'd opened the office window once more, I thrilled to hear the end-of-day songs of robins fill the air for the first time this year. I looked out, and the vacant, grassy lot across the street was dotted with birds hopping around, hoping for worms. They're truly back, and now we're rolling into the green season--not that I'm ruling out an unexpected snow fall or two. Yes, it's supposed to be in the 70s tomorrow, but according to Maine weather tradition, you can't rule out anything until Memorial Day. At least.

Blue islands, blue bay,
and robins singing vespers
this first day of spring.