August 20: Waterfront

Friday after work, having a vodka tonic on the deck at the Waterfront with two friends I've known since high school. Sun shining on the harbor, sailboats drifting past. Osprey circling overhead. Mount Battie catching the day's last, rich rays of light. Sometimes I just feel so grateful to live here.

Rich afternoon light
falling on the harbor, boats.
I'm here. I'm happy.

August 19: The Fog

My sister and her family are visiting from Massachusetts, so tonight we organized an al fresco lobster feed at my parents' house on the river. It was a warm evening with no bugs, and we hung out on the back lawn with beer and chips while the baby was put to bed, catching up. Paul saw a huge fish jump. A raven croaked nearby. I tried to teach my niece how to throw a frisbee. Good, relaxing family time.

Just as dinner was ready to be served, we noticed a fog creeping up the river. Actually, creeping is not the right word, as that makes it sound like this was a slow, gradual progression. The fog was speeding up the river like something possessed. I half expected ghosts of pirates to jump out of the mist. Before we'd even finished cracking open the first lobster claw, the river backdrop was completely blanked out. A white screen. From within that whiteness we heard loons call. At one point my mother's sharp eyes picked out the silvery wake of the beaver on its habitual evening swim upriver. A flock of geese flew noisily past, but we never saw them.

On the drive home, the sky was clear over Mount Megunticook and Mount Battie. We could see a planet hanging bright and low over the ridge line to the east, and thanks to the Planets app on my iPad, we learned that it was Jupiter. Clear to the east, fog bank clinging to the course of the river to the west.

Fog whites out our view:
no sunset, no loons, no geese,
just calls in the mist.

August 18: Turkeys

Early this morning on my way to Beech Hill I had to stop for traffic. Although in a few hours the steady line of cars would once more be streaming along Route One, at 6:30 a.m. on a back road in sleepy Rockport, Maine, it wasn't cars that were holding me up. It was a flock of turkeys. As I stopped the car and watched several hens rush out of the way, a small flock of poults scattering behind them, I was reminded of a childhood visit to Scotland when we frequently had to stop the car for a flock of free-roaming sheep, or--my favorite--Scottish long-haired cows. There's something special about living in a place where one has to stop for animals on a regular basis.

The turkey flock looked healthy and certainly moved off the road with agility for such large birds. They're such odd-looking creatures, especially the young ones with their skinny necks and awkward bodies. But they can run. The acorns and beechnuts are beginning to drop onto the forest floor, and these mast crops make up a big part of a turkey's diet. So I imagine I'll be stopping for more than one flock of foraging turkeys in the weeks ahead.

Morning turkey trot
as my car scatters the flock.
An excuse to pause.

August 17: Milkweed Pods

In the field out back the milkweed pods swell on stalks like oddly-shaped cucumbers--strange, pregnant fruits of late summer. It seems like just last week I was writing about the perfume of the flowers. Now all that remains of those flowers are darkened curls of dried up stems. Upright like tiny ears of corn, the green pods ridged with soft "spikes" grow fatter and fatter on the plants. Come fall these pods will burst open to release seeds attached to silky little streamers that disperse on the breeze like down. But for now they're ripening in the sun, maturing for that future harvest by the wind.

Milkweed pods swelling,
preparing to celebrate
summer's end with Poof!

August 16: Hummingbirds

When my friend Diane calls me at an odd time at work, I know she's seen a cool bird in her yard. This afternoon was no exception. "I've got a rusty red hummingbird with a red throat here," she said. I was at her house in minutes.

Rufous Hummingbird, male; Rockport, Maine

And there he was, a male rufous hummingbird in all his shining red glory. He spent most of the hour I was there perched in a tree, where he stood out like an autumn leaf. He perched in full view with an eye on her hummingbird feeder. I only saw him approach it to feed once, when I took the above photo. But whenever a ruby-throated hummingbird, the native species you'd normally expect to see here, tried to feed, he would swoop down and chase it away. He was slightly bigger and puffier than the natives, which apparently made him somewhat of a bully.

For reasons other than his obvious beauty, seeing this hummingbird is a big deal. Look in a bird book and you'll see that rufous hummingbirds live far west of the Mississippi. The only other ones I've seen have been in the Rocky Mountains. But occasionally one will go astray during migration and show up in New England. I've never heard of one being seen around here, though, and I've certainly never been so fortunate as to see one in Maine. 

While we were watching (and trying to photograph) the rufous hummingbird and the comings-and-goings of the resident ruby-throats, our attention was drawn to movement in a potted jasmine plant on Diane's porch. At first we thought it might be another hummingbird, but we quickly realized that it was an insect. A hummingbird moth, to be specific--a very cool moth that looks just like a hummingbird. I think I've only seen one or two of these before, so it was almost exciting a sighting as the  errant rufous hummingbird.

Hummingbird Moth

This afternoon's sightings reminded me--you should always keep your eyes open on what's buzzing around your back yard!

Hummingbird--so small
your body, so fierce your heart.
May you burn brightly. 

August 15: Perfume

These humid days when I'm puttering in the herb garden plucking and trimming, aromas of the bruised leaves hang heavy in the air. Imagine the licorice fragrance of fennel mixed with the tang of lemon thyme. Or the sharp pungency of chives blended with the soothing tones of lavender. Or parsley, sage, and mown grass. The palette of potential perfumes is endless and ephemeral. Like these fleeting weeks of summer when I can spend a morning in my garden with the sun hot on my hair, breathing the scented air deeply and with great joy.

No better perfume

than these crushed leaves of thyme, mint,

rubbed on my warm throat.

Speaking of herbs and summer, when I was in Portland on Friday a friend recommended the new Mount Desert Island Ice Cream shop on Exchange Street. "You've got to get the blueberry basil sorbet," he said. Intrigued, I passed up other unusual ice cream flavors like lavender, salt caramel, and Jack Daniels and got the sorbet. If ever a flavor embodied summer, that was it. Think a mouth full of juicy berries with the fresh, green after-taste of basil. No wonder this is where President Obama went for his infamous ice cream cone when he and his family vacationed on Mount Desert Island last month. (According to a sign posted in this new offshoot of that original Bar Harbor shop, he ordered coconut.)

August 14: The Call of the Sea

It's rather ironic that as I sit on my back porch about to write a post about waking up this morning to the sound of an osprey chirping overhead, I can hear the cheesy carnival-esque music of an ice cream truck making its slow pass through our neighborhood. There's something about ice cream trucks (and clowns, for that matter) that creeps me out, although I'm sure to children with more innocent minds the music is as saliva-inducing as Pavlov's bell was to his dog.

When I awoke on yet another perfect summer morning today and heard the osprey before I even got out of bed, I thought to myself that I don't think I could live where I wouldn't hear that, or at the very least, the sound of gulls. That reminded me of something in Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings books, when Legolas, a prince of the wood elves, is told that if he hears the gulls, he'll never return to his forest realm. I'm not sure if that was meant to be a straightforward prophecy--for he does hear gulls when he reaches the sea and ends up spending his life traveling Middle Earth with his dwarf companion--or if there was something more implied.

Personally, having grown up in midcoast Maine, I think there was more to it. I wouldn't want to live for any amount of time away from the ocean and the cries of the gulls and ospreys. I like to imagine that once Legolas saw the sea, its lure was inescapable, so that he could never be satisfied with life in Mirkwood Forest again. Of course, coming from a place called Mirkwood, it seems like the attractions of  the sea would be obvious--sunlight on waves, the expanse of the open water, sea birds twinkling overhead... I guess what I love best about this place that is my home is the perfect combination of waterfront and woods--I can wake to ospreys as well as to a cardinal's whistle and the rustle of wind in the leaves. I can hike for several hours on mountain trails shaded by big old trees and be rewarded at the top with an ocean view: the best of both worlds.

A few minutes ago, my husband (in a nearby lawn chair) told me that he could smell the sea. He too grew up near the ocean and understands how fortunate we are to be able to sit beneath an ash tree alongside the river, breathing in salt air--and also, how inevitable, as if we could bear to be anywhere else.

With an osprey's voice
the sea wakes us up, beckons,
its blue doors open.

August 13: Perseids

The Perseid meteor shower peaks today. This summer shower always carries a festive connotation for me, because it coincides with my friend Woody's birthday. Woody and I used to work at a writers conference in Vermont together every August, the dates of which always overlapped with his birthday. However we chose to celebrate (and being writers, we were creative--think pinatas, night swimming, tequila), the evening was never complete without a viewing of the meteor shower from some strategic point on the conference's rural campus. I don't think there's a better place to watch falling stars than one of the Bread Loaf hayfields surrounded by the profound dark of the Green Mountain National Forest. Our viewing was often punctuated by the howling of coyotes hunting in the river valley. Their wild yipping and the usually dramatic meteor show seemed the perfect birthday celebration. (As I said in my post two days ago, sometimes when it's your birthday, good things seem to revolve around you.)

After the Red Sox hit their fourth home run against Texas tonight (and their third in a row!), it seemed safe to leave the game for a few minutes to step out back and see if the sky was clear. It was, so I decided to stay out long enough to see one falling star. Perseus rises directly over our roof, so I had an unobstructed view. What I at first thought was a faint haze was, I realized when my eyes had adjusted, the Milky Way. My celestial observations were accompanied by an acoustic guitar sing-along on our neighbors' back porch tonight, creating an enjoyable if unusual atmosphere in which to watch the night sky. I was reminded a bit of those past summers at Bread Loaf.

I saw a falling star in less than five minutes and realize now that I should have made a wish on it for the Red Sox: Texas has since responded with three home runs of their own. Friday the 13th does not appear to be our star pitcher Josh Beckett's lucky day. But I'm happy nonetheless and look forward to going out to the back yard to rack up a few more wishes after the game.

Meteor shower:
Perseus tosses out stars,
each pitch a bright wish.

August 12: TVs on the Tower

Yesterday on a hike up Ragged Mountain we emerged from the woods onto the rocky ledges of the ridge to the sight of four turkey vultures (known in birder parlance as TVs) soaring past at eye level. They then made such a close pass overhead that I wondered if they could smell the tuna sandwiches in our backpacks. Like us, they seemed to be enjoying the beautiful day, tilting and circling on the thermals--the hot air rising off the mountain--with what looked like acrobatic joy above the summit. TVs are skillful fliers, and to watch one at such close range makes one imagine leaping off the rocks, arms spread wide, to give it a try. It's worked for me in dreams, at least.

A radio/communications tower stands at attention rather incongruously on the otherwise rugged and wild heights of Ragged. I couldn't help but laugh when I observed one of the vultures soar close to the tower and then land on it. Of course its many crossbars makes an ideal perch, and at one point as we skirted the ridge line I counted eight vultures perched at various levels on the tower and more flying nearby. It looked like they were making the most of this human-made structure that had sprouted on their mountaintop. I guess vultures are opportunistic in more ways than just as carrion eaters. I admire their adaptability.

Mountaintop tower--
to us, ugly; to vultures,
a convenient perch.

August 11: Loon Birthday

When it's a special day, a birthday, it can sometimes seem like every good thing that happens is for your benefit. The universe revolves around you, celebrates your very existence. That's a good birthday.

Today is my mom's birthday, and while she was relaxing in a lawn chair out on her float on the river this morning, she got her gift: the two resident adult loons and their fuzzy brown chick approached within ten feet of her. My mom has been watching this baby loon's development since it was hatched, so it's virtually part of the family at this point. If she doesn't see it every day, she worries. The loons, of course, were wishing her a happy birthday. And the parents were teaching their youngster a lesson, catching a fish and dropping it in the water in front of the chick so it could learn how to catch fish for itself. The true gift was their letting my mother observe such intimate animal behavior up close.

Thankfully, the universe continues to revolve around Mom tonight, as the Red Sox, her favorite team (and mine), seem on their way to another victory versus Toronto.

A touching side note about my mother's birthday: when my sister told my four-year-old niece Fiona that today was Nanny's birthday, she burst into tears, upset that Nanny was "getting old and would die." My niece's universe revolves around my mother for sure!

Loon family visit--
river offers up this gift.
Happy birthday, Mom!

August 10: Dwellings (of sorts)

Who lives here? On a hike through the woods today on a conserved property in Lincolnville, I came across this den. Do groundhogs live in the woods? It's about the right size for them. A little discovery like this always gives me pause, makes me wish I were more woods-wise. And there's that part of me that wants to stick my arm in the hole and see what's in there...

Deeper in the woods, near some of the largest trees I've ever seen in the Midcoast (ash, pine, aspen) and a striking patch of glowing white baneberry, we came across this interesting stone structure.

No one had a clue about what it might be. The opening doesn't go in more than three or four feet, so it doesn't look like a place where something would have lived, but perhaps the rocks at the back of the opening caved in at some point in the past.

Here's a photo with people to give some perspective:

Property owner Rick Ledwith (top) and Orvil Young

Others on the outing suggested that it might be a lime kiln or even a burial mound of some sort. It made me think of purported sacred sites made out of stone that I remembering hearing about in Vermont: "megalithic mysteries." I was reminded of Skara Brae, a prehistoric stone village I visited in the Orkney Islands of Scotland when I was a kid. There's probably a more practical explanation for this interesting structure, such as its being a crude farming shed: these woods were lined with old stone walls indicating that the area had been pastureland around the end of the 1800s. But I prefer to imagine that inside that south-facing opening one might find runic carvings on the stones or perhaps discover that it aligns with the sun's rays on the Summer Solstice.

Or, really stretching my imagination--maybe it was a dwelling for wood elves. Maybe it still is. Such crazy thoughts added a little more mystery, a little more wild magic to these woods so close to a major road and several houses, bisected by a snowmobile trail and power lines. And that feeling was only enhanced by the haunting call of a loon on nearby Megunticook Lake.

Never really tamed,
these woods still harbor strange caves,
poisonous berries.