December 31: Blue Moon

All morning at my desk I've been singing "Blue Moon" to myself... (I also played Nanci Griffith singing "Once in a Very Blue Moon" for variety.) I think I'm actually more excited that today marks the blue moon--the second full moon in a month--than I am for the turn of the year. After all, a blue moon only comes around... well, you know the saying...

Apparently the commonly accepted definition of a blue moon is not its original one, which was based on the concept that every season has 3 full moons, and if there happened to be an "extra" moon during that quarter of the year, the third one was called a "blue moon" to keep the moons and seasons in correspondence. The old definition offers a nice link to our agrarian roots, when we actually paid close attention to solar and lunar cycles and the seasons. But the current definition makes it a little easier for everyone to understand what's going on and celebrate in their own way.

An unabashed moon worshipper, I paid homage to this special full moon when I awoke in the middle of last night to see her bright white face shining through the window. Knowing of the pending storm, I figured I probably wouldn't see much of the moon tonight. And the clouds are in fact already moving in. To celebrate New Year's Eve, my husband and I will share an omakase assortment at Suzuki's Sushi Bar, and I'll enjoy some sake, rice wine traditionally served in little stoneware cups. The story goes that the great Chinese poet Li Po drowned because he tried to embrace the full moon's reflection while drunk on sake. Because it's probably not true, I can appreciate the tragic beauty of that legend, which has forever entwined the moon, poetry, and sake in my mind.

Maybe the restaurant will even offer Midnight Moon sake, to perfectly commemorate the moment.

Blue moon celebrates
turn of year, a new decade--
raise high the wine cup!

December 30: White

I think of the color white now not because of snow or the almost full moon, but because in the past few days, Maine birders have posted on the Maine Birding List-serv photos of two different white birds. These birds are leucistic, not albino. Put simply, leucism is caused by developmentally defective pigment cells, while albinism is caused by a genetic lack of melanin. The main visible differences are that a leucistic animal doesn't have the albino's red eyes and may not be pure white. I've seen a song sparrow with a white face and a crow with some white tail feathers, for instance. But these photos depicted birds that were, if not as pure white as driven snow, almost entirely white.

The first bird is a junco that has been coming to a feeder in Freedom for most of December. Normally, a junco is an overall slate-grey bird with a white belly. This junco, photographed on a very snowy feeder against snow-covered bushes, is strikingly white, with only a thin dark edge to its wings, dark eyes, and a junco's typical pink legs and bill. This beautiful bird looks as if it's been crafted from the surrounding drifts and brought to life--Frosty the Snowbird. I wonder if it's aware how well it blends in with the snow, if it has learned how to make itself invisible.

This morning a birder in southern Maine posted a photo of a leucistic red-tailed hawk that has apparently been regularly seen in Eliot for the past four years in the neighborhood of the Marshwood Middle School. The photographer has seen the bird with his non-white mate. (With most hawks, the females are larger, hence the assumption that the smaller, white bird is male. Apparently his freakish color didn't render him unattractive to at least one other of his kind.)  The photo shows a white hawk flying against a background of bare trees. Except for his dark eye and bill, the hawk truly looks like a ghost bird, or the surreal visitation of some forest angel.

Two unusual white birds during these snowy days of winter, two pale muses:

White bird in winter--
blank as the snow-covered field
and as beautiful.

December 29: Wind Advisory

Current weather topics: today's roaring wind, and the big storm predicted for New Year's Day. I haven't been able to find out much about Friday's storm--and since I've got no travel plans for that day, that's alright. But I do know from first-hand experience that today's wind is brutal.

Weather Underground tells me there's a "Wind Advisory until 7 PM EST this evening," and warns of downed branches and power lines, and "dangerous driving conditions over open areas... especially for high profile vehicles." Guess I won't be driving my double-decker bus home tonight. My ears tell me there's a giant roaring monster outside that would like to wrap the building in trees and fling it into the ocean. And the last time I ventured out the door, my skin agreed with the report of Northwest winds gusting from 20 to 40 MPH. Wind chill's dropped an already bone-chilling 10 degrees to about 5 below.

Some people delight in high winds, in feeling nature's power moving through the world, the dynamic, kinetic energy our planet generates without any help from humans. That's cool in concept, but really, strong winds just make me very anxious. I can hear things blowing around outside, thumping against the house. Before darkness fell, I could see mature trees rocking in the storm as if they were stalks of grass on a windswept plain. The windows rattle. Lines from King Lear come to mind: "Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! Blow!" Not a happy play, and Lear himself doesn't fare well out in the elements, if I recall.

When I was a kid we lived for several months in a farmhouse with a three-story barn that was just outside my bedroom window. The open barn door was like a giant dark maw that howled with a fierce wind every night while I lay awake, afraid of what was out there. Perhaps that childish fear is with me still as I sit at my desk, shivering despite the heat, cringing as each gust accelerates, gains power, and crashes through the trees and down the street like an invisible tsunami.

Winds from Canada--
thundering caribou herds
sweeping the tundra.

December 28: A Few Birds

This morning the sun thought about shining, and the sky wore sheer blue for a few hours, despite the forecast of 100% chance of snow or rain. The only flurry I experienced was of titmice. After days of having few to no birds visit my office feeder, several titmice came in from all directions for about half an hour. As usual, each bird would land, calling its few raspy notes as if to say, "Here I am!", look in at me, take a seed, then leave.

While this little burst of activity was taking place, four crows were grazing nearby on the sodden, half-frosted, lumpy lawn. One crow played for a while with a frozen apple, tossing it around with its bill without much hope of rendering it edible. The others looked on, and then they all turned their bright black eyes on me at the window. I like to watch them strut and stroll in their family group, my neighbor crows, these birds who will eat almost anything (or at least try). Out of politeness, I backed away from the window so they could continue their explorations without fear. The titmice flew back and forth from feeder to bush and tree a little longer. Then they all flew off. No chickadees today, or goldfinches. An uninspiring day overall, redeemed by these few visitors.

Family of four crows,
what can this wet lawn offer?
One frozen apple.

December 27: Winter Rain

A lazy day here at our home, regrouping after the holidays: doing laundry, writing thank you notes, polishing off some of the many cookies we've accumulated over the past week... And now that the Patriots have decisively clinched the AFC East title, I may even sit back and crack open one of the books on the huge stack that has sprouted on my bedside table. It's a perfect day for this kind of thing, because the weather outside is truly frightful. Unfortunately, it's not snow coming down, but lots and lots of rain, the deluge enhanced by gusting wind. The river's high, water pools in our neighbor's yard, and the remaining snow washes away bit by bit. This dreary weather could easily lead to post-holiday gloom. Fortunately, those cookies and some chocolate are close at hand, and I'm about to open Bernd Heinrich's Summer World in hopes of being transported ahead six months to a new season...

Rain sweeps away snow,
reveals winter's detritus
with months left to go.

December 26: Tracks

Although we've seen a dusting of snow the past couple of days--we got our white Christmas--the white stuff that encrusts our lawn is far from pristine. Our tiny yard is littered with twigs, branches, bark, and other detritus. Some bare patches reveal a layer of crisp brown oak and maples leaves, an earthy cake under that stale frosting. We've tromped a path from the back step to the shed. And all around, the regular indentations of animals tracks meander through the snow.

It doesn't take a skilled tracker to figure out what's traveled through our yard. In the front, some big canine paw prints reveal where a walked dog strayed from the sidewalk. A series of smaller holes, following a purposeful path along the fence line into the backyard, record the visit of the neighbor's cat. I've observed him treading that very route in all seasons, sometimes several times a day. He follows the edge of the backyard to the shed, then ducks beneath the building, where I think he hangs out for awhile before continuing on his way through the south end of the neighborhood. Unaware of property deeds and surveys, he knows very well the perimeters of his territory, which he patrols vigilantly. After every storm I note this same pattern of tracks in the fresh snow.

In the backyard, besides the feline border patrol, squirrels leave the light marks of their daily explorations. Around the dead tree stump where I sometimes leave old vegetables, some deeper imprints reflect high activity when the snow was soft. Like rabbits, squirrels hop. Their paired prints--the bigger back feet landing ahead of their smaller front feet--engrave the snow all over the backyard. Sometimes I'll also see where they dug into snow seeking some long-remembered acorn. And if I went back there and looked carefully along the edge of the trees, I might even see the tracks of yesterday's duck visitors, though ducks tread lightly.

Snow's an open book
telling a simple story:
habits, hunger, quest.

December 25: Christmas Ducks

A few times on Christmas, Mother Nature has given us the gift of an unusual wildlife sighting. One year, my dad and I saw a flock of Bohemian waxwings--one of my favorite birds--settle into a tree right outside my parents' house. Another year, we looked out to see an otter on the river ice, apparently eating a fish, eyed by a bald eagle in a nearby tree. This year, as I sat down to my computer after enjoying a lovely Christmas brunch with friends, I noticed three black ducks waddling up the snowy bank from the river, probably scoping out our yard for acorns. That in itself was kind of cool. Although we see ducks almost daily down in the river, they've never before visited our back yard. But then we noticed that a pair of wood ducks was also moving up the bank into our yard. The male wood duck has such exotic coloring and patterns that seeing one at any time seems like a gift. And here he was, mate in tow, hustling through our yard on Christmas Day. Wish they'd hung out long enough for a photo.

(Thanks to Wikimedia, here's a photo I would like to have taken of a male wood duck)

Now a squirrel's digging in a patch of dead leaves, but somehow that isn't as festive and exciting. Still, Merry Christmas, squirrel! I hope you and the ducks find a holiday treat under the snow and leaves back there.

Wood duck in my yard--
gaudy as a Christmas gift,
a gift worth sharing.

December 24: Christmas Eve

When I was a child, my grandmother told me that at midnight on Christmas Eve the animals talk. My grandmother's parents were both from Aberdeen, Scotland, but she was born in Massachusetts. So I have no idea if this came directly from her Scottish heritage--but I do know now that this is a fairly widespread folk belief in America and Western Europe. Trying to track the source is complicated. Christians legend has it that animals talk then because when Christ was born the animals in the manger spoke words of adoration and sang hymns to him. (Even bees, apparently!) Other sources assert that this is a pre-Christian belief along the lines of the myriad Christmas Eve fortune-telling superstitions that have arisen in many cultures.

Be that as it may, Christmas Eve is a magical time for a child, and I always believed what my grandmother told me. She and my grandfather raised sheep and chickens, and I wondered what it would be like to visit the sheep shed at midnight. Knowing them, they would probably all start grumbling about how they wished we fed them more, or how they wished they hadn't been bred this year because next spring it would mean twin lambs butting their teats and hopping all over their backs. And the chickens nestled safely in their little hay-lined cubbies, what would they have to say? Would they suddenly start gossiping like the bunch of cackling biddies they were?

Rosanne Griffeth, a goat farmer living near Great Smoky Mountains National Park, related this Christmas Eve tale about her goat Nod in a 2005 blog:
"This midnight as the clock heralded in the wee hours of Christmas Day, I went out onto the porch to check on Nod. I think the part of me who was still eight years old was half-hoping to hear her say something.


'Blah. Blah-blah.' She said, looking up at me with her topaz colored goat eyes and snorting.


I understood perfectly.


'Screw you! Give me some damn corn, you bitch!'


I scratched her under the chin and told her she was a good girl. Because it's important to tell homely creatures they are beautiful, and naughty creatures that they are good."

Fairy tales in which humans hear animals talking on Christmas Eve don't usually bode well for the hearer, who often learns of his or her imminent demise. Perhaps this solsticial magic isn't meant for our ears, but is supposed to remain in the realm of the unexplained and supernatural--something to spark the delight inherent in the holiday season, but not to be pondered too deeply. Even so, when I wake up in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve, I inevitably turn to the cat sharing my pillow and ask her if she feels like saying anything. And true to her nature, she twitches her tail in annoyance at my disturbing her sleep and remains silent. Probably just as well. She has quite the temper.

Christmas Eve magic--
will animals speak tonight?
We crave connection.

December 23: Flicker Feather

I confess that when I'm walking around in the great outdoors, if I find a cool feather I will sometimes pocket it. Technically this is illegal. According to the Migratory Bird Treaty Act: "Unless and except as permitted by regulations, …it shall be unlawful at any time, by any means, or in any manner…to pursue, hunt, take, capture, kill, …possess, offer for sale, sell, …purchase, import…any migratory bird, any part, nest, or eggs of any such bird…"


That said, however, I've got a small feather from a northern flicker sitting in a little vase on my desk. It's a miniature work of art--about five inches long, dark brown vanes with white edging on the wider side, and a bright yellow shaft with a white quill. Sharpened, it might make a good pen for a gnome. The underside has a yellow sheen. Here in the east, our flickers are of the yellow-shafted subspecies. When a flicker flaps past, that yellow underside is obvious. Out west, you see the red-shafted subspecies. Same basic bird, but the underwing shines pinkish-red when it dips past. They both have the characteristic white rump spots--usually the diagnostic marking that gets noticed as the bird dives into tree cover. 


Maybe because grey tones seem dominant right now, today I've been especially noticing my feather. The hints of spots on its edges are like parts of a Rorschach ink blot test. What do they make me think of? The sharp piercing cry of the flicker as it calls from the trees outside my window in spring... the squadrons of migrating flickers I see on Monhegan each fall... the subtle beauty of this woodpecker as it pecks for ants on my mother's lawn... And the yellow shaft is a really deep gold, almost like an egg yolk or a summer sun. A little bit of brightness next to my books and file folders.


In the spring I'll probably release it to the wind, atone for my law-breaking. But for now, my eyes need it here. 


Small flicker feather
picked up in last summer's woods,
shaft a slice of sun.

December 22: Squirrel's Nest

4:15. It's that time of day when everything has faded to black and white: black line of driveway, white snow, black branches of trees against white sky. Out my window a row of trees is starkly silhouetted and rocking gently in a frigid breeze. The scene could be pleasing in a nostalgic, twilit kind of way, except for the chunky power pole sitting amid the graceful lines of the lacing branches.

Also standing out amid the lines of trunks, branches, and power lines: a clump of leaves halfway up the tallest tree that must be a squirrel's nest, also called a drey. Odd words like that stick in my head. I've tried looking it up to find out where it came from, but other than learning that you could also name your baby boy Drey, it appears to be of unknown origin.

Photo by Brian Willson (Interestingly, taken the same day I wrote this entry. Guess I wasn't the only one pondering squirrel nests today.)

When I was very young, my mother would read me a picture book called "Miss Suzy." (I just looked it up on Amazon and it's still in print! It's now in my shopping cart.) The plot line was fairly simple. Miss Suzy was a grey squirrel who lived in a neat house in a tree, until some mean red squirrels chased her out and messed up her house. Some toy soldiers fought them off and somehow helped Miss Suzy find a new home. I mostly remember being enchanted by her little acorn cups and twig broom. Even now when I see a squirrel's nest I can't help but wonder what's inside. And how does more than one squirrel fit in there, anyway?

Clump of leaves and twigs,
somehow sheltering squirrels.
What makes a home "home"?

December 21: Winter Solstice

This morning I awoke with a sense of deep excitement: today is the Winter Solstice. In the most literal sense, things will be getting brighter now. 

Solstice means literally "sun standing," an apt metaphor for the shortest day when the sun follows its lowest track above the horizon--a time when the wheel of the seasons seems to pause before rolling on into spring. Winter solstice in this hemisphere is the moment when the earth's axis tilts the farthest away from the sun. It's officially the first day of winter, though we've already been plunged into what most of us would call winter for the past couple of weeks. It seems ironic that the season of ice and cold begins on the day when the sun is, in a sense, reborn. From here on out, until the Summer Solstice, the days will grow longer. Our light will gradually return, even as we plunge more deeply into the snow drifts of the next few months. 

The Solstice has been tracked since Neolithic days--ancient monuments such as Stonehenge are aligned with this significant day. Holidays and rituals have evolved all over the world to celebrate the rebirth of the sun god and/or the light. (Check out Wikipedia for what is literally an A to Z listing of various events connected to the Winter Solstice through time and across cultures. In light of the day--pun intended--evergreen trees decorated with candles really are the perfect Solstice symbol.) As I drove into my driveway tonight, candles in my windows and the lights of my Christmas tree shining through the blind welcomed me, and I felt a true surge of joy. Slowly we progress from darkness to light, reborn ourselves in spirit. Something from earliest human existence, when we must have feared the sun was leaving us for good, stirs within us even now. 

Interestingly, one of my co-workers who is also a doula, a childbirth assistant, helped at a birth today: a new child brought into the world, echoing the reborn sun rising tomorrow to linger with us just a few minutes longer.

Winter Solstice night--

our darkest evening deepens.

New sun awaits birth.