November 30: Buffleheads

Temperatures in the mid-40s on the last day of November as we step through the doorway into December. Rain here on the coast, while a friend in Vermont reports snowflakes. The mailman says tomorrow is supposed to be colder, which would be more appropriate for December. It's kind of hard to muster up the holiday spirit when green plants still flourish in my herb garden, and another day of drizzle clouds the horizon.

Five months from now, I'm probably going to be complaining that it's April and snowing. What do I expect? I live in Maine, in a weird little coastal area that seems to have its own weather patterns, in a time of global climate change.

Out on the river the buffleheads bob. These small black and white ducks breed in Canada, into the Arctic, and spend their winters in the relatively mild climate of Maine's coastal waters. Days like this must seem nearly tropical to them. When they first appear on the river each fall, it's one of those big reminders that we're headed into darker, colder times. But despite this association, I find the ducks themselves fun to watch. Agile divers, they slip underwater in a blink. It's a challenge to tally how many you're seeing in a little group, because several at a time dive down and then pop up in unexpected places. This mild spell means the river will remain unfrozen a little longer, so the ducks will hang out here later into the season than usual. When the river freezes, most of them head for the harbors and inland waters of the bay.

Downcast by rainfall,
yet buoyed by bobbing ducks.
November's last day.

Photo from Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

November 29: Jet Trails

Sun and blue sky after days of rain brought us out today. Paul and I hiked up Beech Hill with our friend Brian, marveling at the rare views of the bay visible through bare branches, recalling where we usually see songbirds in spring and summer. Damp leaves padded the muddy trail. Stone walls wind in all directions through the woods, marking long-gone pastures. And of course, the sod-roofed stone hut at the top of the hill takes one back to a different era, as well. 


Not much bird life to be seen. We heard some chickadees--those ubiquitous birds--and watched a single crow soar over the fields. Most activity was of the human sort, as others were equally happy to be outside in the unusually mild late November sunshine. As I was walking, I wondered what would inspire my poem today: the clear view revealing Mount Desert Island, Monhegan, and the three new wind turbines twirling on Vinalhaven? feeling the sun on my face? old maple trees locking down their sap for the winter? a dead birch pockmarked with square-edged woodpecker excavations?


Or what about the ephemeral but oh-so-sweet pleasure of devouring an entire pecan sticky bun at the Home Kitchen Cafe? Or buying a Christmas wreath, beginning our holiday decorating? Haiku capture fleeting moments or moods in just a few words. Any of those would do.


But as we drove home, I noticed out the car window an intersection of five jet trails at some point above Camden Harbor. The trails radiated outward through the sky like the arms of a giant vaporous starfish. I couldn't resist.

Vapor trails converge:

starfish in a sea blue sky

waves above the waves.

November 28: Rain

In our little house the sound of water is a constant. The river outside pours past, swollen now with the rain that has fallen heavily the past few days. Last night as I tried to sink into sleep, the rain drummed so loudly on the roof that I couldn't help but wonder if some large, agile animal were doing a dance in our attic. Knowing such a dance was impossible in our attic space full of blown insulation was small comfort for my insomniac anxiety. I could hear the rush of river, roar of wind, rain pattering on the propane tanks outside the bedroom window, and instead of feeling cozy and warm in my bed, I felt threatened within our home's thin walls.

I wondered if we would hear the emergency whistle above the noise of the storm if the Seabright Dam just upriver were to break. We live on a bluff above the still-visible flood plain of the river's former flow. But my childhood nightmares of giant waves washing away the house resurrected when we moved down river of two dams. As I lie in the dark listening to rain, my mind often wanders upriver to the body of Lake Megunticook--all that water just waiting there in the basin between Bald Mountain and Mount Megunticook--a barely restrained animal that, if it really exerted its full power, could go anywhere it wanted, fill every crevice of this town.

But those are night thoughts. This morning the white of the sky echoes the color of the wet shed and the foam churned up by the river as it rolls over rocks that are usually exposed. Chickadees and titmice slip from branch to bare branch like falling leaves. The lawn is an intricate brown tapestry of leaves. Moss on the north side of the shed roof is vivid green, flourishing in this moisture and unseasonable warmth. Slim bodies of trees sway in the wind. The rain seems to have stopped for now. I contemplate venturing outside for one last November run, but lean toward the lights and warmth of the gym.

Upriver the lake
lies silent, power contained.
But here--churn and foam.

November 27: Driving

Driving alone in the dark can play tricks with the mind. For some reason, listening to my favorite music turned up really loud in such an atmosphere always makes it more poignant to me. This poem isn't meant to capture a moment of angst, but a moment of intensity. That kind of moment we've all had when the lyrics speak directly to us, and it seems like the whole dreary, dark, wet world outside the car is a vast loneliness waiting to engulf us as we drive onward into anywhere. (Or perhaps I'm just speaking for myself. Really, not angst, but a strange and joyful level of emotional connection for me.)

Tires on dark wet streets,
car stereo turned up loud--
music of longing.

Tonight's playlist, for those who want to try this at home:

"I Wish I Was the Moon"--Neko Case
"Sometime Around Midnight"--The Airborne Toxic Event
"Free Man in Paris"--Joni Mitchell
"Read My Mind"--The Killers
"Fake Empire"--The National
"Before It Breaks"--Brandi Carlile
"Use Somebody"--Kings of Leon
"Search Your Heart"--Pete Yorn and Scarlett Johansson

November 26: Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving! And so the holiday season officially begins. My husband and I spent a good day in southern Maine enjoying a bountiful meal with his family, grateful for sharing time and food with those we love. We returned home in rain, dark, and fog, and I was worried the heavy mist would obscure my favorite part of this special day--seeing the star on the Mount Battie tower lit up for the first night of the season. I didn't think we'd see it through the clouds, but my husband bet me a quarter we would. Sure enough, when we crested the hill past Simonton Corner, there it was: a blur of light seemingly floating in the night sky. We might not even have been aware of what we were seeing if we didn't know there was a small mountain ahead of us bearing a star of lights on its summit.

Rainy Thanksgiving.

First glimpse of Mount Battie star--

smear of misty light.

And then there are other local holiday traditions that make me smile. As we turned into our neighborhood, we could see how our neighbors the Wards had spent their Thanksgiving. When we hit the road this morning, a deflated turkey lay slumped on their lawn. Tonight, thousands of Christmas lights, reindeer, candy canes, inflatable Santas and snowmen bedeck their home and yard. During the holidays, this is the most-visited house in town. Even when I was a kid we would make a special side trip so we could marvel at their light show. Only a Scrooge would complain about the energy drained. Not to sound like a credit card ad, but traditions like these that invoke the joy and wonder of the holidays--a joy and wonder that have persisted since childhood--are priceless. The nights grow longer these last few weeks until the Solstice. But our spirit is strengthened by these lights, this star, in the darkness.

November 25: Chickadees

The Maine state bird, the pert black-capped chickadee, is so common around here that we tend to take it for granted. It's a tiny bird with a simple song, and sports the same black and white plumage year-round. Of the birds that come to my feeder, the male cardinal, rose-breasted grosbeak, and goldfinch are much flashier, capturing more attention with their color and comparative scarcity.

But I think chickadees are my favorite visitor, because I can count on them. They're regulars. Every morning when I sit down at my desk, there's a flurry of chickadee activity at my little window feeder, and every afternoon when dusk starts to fall (these days, around 4:00) there's another flurry before they all head off to roost for the night. When I hear the soft, repeated taps of chickadees landing one after another on the feeder in late afternoon, I automatically look at the clock, knowing my work day is almost done. I like knowing that my feeder must be one of their last stops before nightfall. If the feeder is very low or empty, one will sometimes sit on the edge and yell, "Chick-a-dee-dee-dee," looking right at me--I swear it's telling me to get up and fill the feeder already.

Photo by Brian Willson

Each bird flits in quickly and pauses for a moment on the feeder's edge, bright eyes alert to any movements, including mine. It carefully picks through the seeds till it finds the perfect one (sometimes tossing aside the imperfect ones with seeming disdain), then flies off with it. The next chickadee, which has been queued up in a nearby bush, quickly follows suit. One chickadee--at least, I think it's one bird--likes to open its sunflower seed by banging it on the side of the feeder. You can hear it throughout the office, and I can't help but laugh each time at its clever talent.

The chickadee's tiny bird brain actually does something amazing this time of year--it grows extra brain cells so as to expand its memory to include all the places the bird is caching food for the winter. It's kind of like adding extra RAM to a computer. Even the smallest creatures are marvels of nature when studied closely.

Bright-eyed chickadee
looks in at me, grabs one seed--
the day is ending.

November 24: Vegetables

I had lunch today at Chase's Daily, an excellent vegetarian restaurant in Belfast that also doubles as a sort of farmer's market, with the back half of their space being filled with produce fresh off the farm. You wouldn't think there would be much to offer in late November. But I was surprised at what filled the bins and baskets back there: several types of squashes, beets, kale, architectural-looking Romanesco broccoli (see below--this stuff is cool!), cauliflower, parsnips, carrots, onions, rosy fingerling potatoes, celeriac, even paper white bulbs for forcing some winter blooms. A bounty of late season food, and certainly something for which to be thankful.

And did I mention they also have an amazing array of baked goods? Chocolate pear tarts, cherry coconut muffins, ginger cookies, breads... And cheeses. Mmmm. Is it obvious I'm writing this right before suppertime? Even now, the rest of the carrots I brought home are beckoning me from the kitchen...

Big, glowing carrot--
I eat it right from the bag.
Mouthful of autumn.

November 23: Midges

Tonight when we came home from a movie, our porch light was swarmed by midges. Such an odd thing to see in late November, this cluster of insects. The unseasonably warm weather must have brought on a late hatch. Now that the light is turned off, will they just freeze and die? 

Drawn to the porch light,

one last hatch of little flies

lasts one more cold night.

A short aside on my prosody here: Traditional Japanese poetry from which the haiku is derived made use of significant word play; words that carried more than one meaning added extra layers and depth to a poem. Such cunning punning created the pivots on which the poem turned, as with "last" in this haiku. Interesting to stop and think about how it ironically means both "final" and "enduring." The end rhyme was unintentional, and I thought about changing the last word from "night" to "hour," but then I decided that I don't really mind the rhyme this time around.

November 22: Driving Home

Spent my day driving home from Vermont. A long trip, punctuated by seeing nine roadside hawks and some blue sky. I was tired and wanted to get home in time for the Patriots game, hence I will confess that I was indeed speeding a wee bit at times. At one point, though, I shocked even myself at how fast I was going--definitely not my usual driving mode. (I feel compelled to add that I quickly slowed down and it didn't happen again.) Guess that's the lure of the open highway with home at the other end, good music, and little else in way of distraction...

Road, cars, tree a blur.
Must be anxious to get home--
going 95?!

November 21: Mountains

The classic Japanese woodblock artist Hiroshige created a series of prints called "One Hundred Views of Edo," in which Mount Fuji is a near-constant presence--sometimes prominent, sometimes in the distant background. There aren't many direct comparisons to be made between Burlington and Tokyo, I realize. But in fact, the mountains that surround this small city in Vermont are just as much a constant presence as Fuji is for Tokyo. Of course, Fuji is a bit more dramatic, being a very high conic volcano apparently rising from the plains. (I've never seen it in person.) But I still thrill to recognize the various mountains visible here--less singular than Fuji, but no less distinct in their effect on those who live near them and who see them on a regular basis.

From the crest of the hill in the middle of the University of Vermont campus, you look west across glowering Lake Champlain to be confronted by the jagged wall of the Adirondacks. To the north rises Vermont's highest peak, Mount Mansfield. To the south, the distinctively shaped bare peak of Camel's Hump juts up from among surrounding hills. When I was in college, I climbed both these mountains several times, and once snowshoed up Mount Marcy, the highest of the Adirondacks. Mountain tops are such meaningful places, places of power that summon their strength from the surrounding landscape below and constant contact with the clouds. They literally touch the heavens. To live in a city with the visual touchstone of a distinctive mountain (or two or more) allows you, in a sense, to tap into that power for yourself, as well as the beauty. I think of the excitement I've heard in the voices of friends in rainy Seattle when the weather's clear and "the mountain is out"--Mount Rainier is visible!

Mist rising from peaks,
mountains protect this city,
commune with the gods.

November 20: Crows

Yesterday I drove to Vermont, a state where I lived for five years (including four in college) and visit at least once a year to see my best friend and her husband in Montpelier. Vermont is a beautiful place, and if it only had an ocean, I might still be living there. (Lake Champlain, while once an inland sea, doesn't quite match up to Penobscot Bay.) So whenever I drive to Vermont and start seeing the familiar exits off I-89 and the profile of the Green Mountains rising to the west, I feel like I'm entering my second home.

Just at dusk as I was about to cross the bridge over the Connecticut River, which divides New Hampshire from Vermont, a massive flock of crows flew over, heading for their roost somewhere north of Lebanon. We don't often see such large numbers of crows--usually just one or two in the yard, or a small group mobbing a red-tailed hawk (which I also saw yesterday at Maine Audubon's Gilsland Farm). But even the family group I watch every day in my neighborhood belongs to some larger society of its kind. Also, unexpectedly large numbers of anything elicit awe (unless it's something like, say, fire ants or maggots, in which case that awe might be tinged with horror or disgust).

Dusk settles, crows flock,
a loose swarm headed for roost.
I too drive homeward.

Shortly thereafter, as it grew darker, I watched the young moon rise, and Jupiter hung clear and bright over the backbone of the Green Mountains.