February 17: Gale

Winds loud as surf.
No wonder I dreamt
of flood tides.

February 16: Sunrise

Thanks to social media, we were able to see a friend's photo of this morning's bright sunrise while the skies over here on the back side of Mount Battie were still dim and gray. However, as we drove out of town shortly thereafter, we managed to catch a quick glimpse of the rising red orb itself and a pink flush spreading through the sky, over the bay... before it all disappeared behind the trees.

A look so intense,
I have to turn away.
Red sun rising.

February 15: Lengthening days

Daylight lingering now
as I leave work.
Last chickadees feeding.

February 14: Valentine's Day

Composed as we were driving home from our Valentine's Day dinner out...

Reclining in her bed
on Valentine's Day--
crescent moon.

The menu from the restaurant where my husband and I dined tonight featured even better poetry to capture the essence of the evening, during which we dined on North Haven oysters, scallops carpaccio, and an omakase assortment for two. Sushi is such a sensual meal.

February 13: Inside/outside

After an afternoon of closed-door committee meetings, the air in the conference room at work was  over-warm and a bit stale. So by the time I joined the day's last meeting at 4:00, a window was cracked open. (After all, it was above freezing outside--virtually tropical compared to last week.) Sitting there, I picked up an odd sound behind the chatter of lively discussion going on around me. It took me a minute or so to realize it was chickadees, queuing up outside in the bushes that run along the front of the building to where my bird feeders are. This was their usual late afternoon final pass at the feeders, but it's been so long since there's been a window open, it was almost surprising to hear how noisy they were--audible even over all the noisy humans gabbing away inside.

Gossipers around
the water cooler--chickadees
outside, us inside.

February 12: Ice

Last night's slush and rain was frozen on every ground surface first thing this morning, making for some treacherous walking. The birds flitting to and from the feeders taunted us with their ease of movement.

Patch of open water--
a reminder
that ice doesn't last.

February 11: At work

During a serious meeting
we all pause
to watch a cardinal.

February 10: Blue sky, white snow

Today couldn't have dawned more differently from yesterday's howling blizzard that created monster snow drifts and shook limbs off trees. Sunshine, blue sky, double-digit temperatures, and shining white snow to play in made it a day to be outside.

I spent most of my time outside helping to park cars for the US National Toboggan Championships at the Camden Snow Bowl, which because of the storm was condensed from a weekend event to a one-day event. I can't imagine a livelier place to have been, with the costumed toboggan racers, festive atmosphere, and snow-covered mountains. A boom box out on the ice blasted disco music, and people had built ice-fishing shacks and igloos from which to host on-ice parties. After a day trapped inside by the storm, the whole community seemed really happy to be able to romp in the snow and cut loose together.

Eagle soaring past again--
perhaps it too rejoices
in the wide open blue sky.

February 9: Blizzard aftermath

This was one of the biggest snow storms I've ever experienced in Maine. My car was so completely buried under a snow drift, I couldn't even shovel it out myself--the snow was piled too high! The wind still roars, blowing loose snow around, undoing all our work to clear out the house and cars. Fallen branches peak from beneath finely sculpted drifts. Peaks and valleys of snow have transformed the landscape. At the feeders, goldfinches, chickadees, and house finches pecked through snow to get at the seed, then sat there eating, out of the wind, as long as they could.

Ice coats a finch's face--
she seems unbothered by it
while she feeds.

February 8: Creaking trees

Walking home from work in a moment of relative calm during today's snowstorm, I heard what I thought was a woodpecker tapping at a tree. I paused to listen more carefully and realized it was a tree creaking in the wind. 

Trees sway in storm winds,

tap out their messages.

Wonder what they're saying. 

Just thinking in broader terms of human conversation, on a more philosophical level, it made me realize that we can never really know if we're understanding what someone else is saying. And the farther we're removed from them by medium of communication--email, letter, text message, writing them a poem, passing along a verbal message through a third party--the more room there is for misinterpretation. Those are my deep thoughts from amid what's supposed to be a serious blizzard. 

February 7: Big Dipper

Driving home from an evening meeting tonight, the Big Dipper rose above the road, standing on the end of its handle.

Big Dipper tipped up--
the whole night sky
spilling out over the fields.