July 17: Morning fog

We awoke to a morning dampened by mist, bird song muted by opaque curtains of fog draped over the trees.

Are they near or far?
How strange the crows sound, unseen
in the morning fog.

July 16: Roadside, Crow

Wildflowers flourished along the Vermont roadside as I headed home this morning. I was impressed with the lush growth of flora; the verge beyond the paved shoulder is often mown flat. Here and there amid the cornflowers, black-eyed Susans, and Queen Anne's lace would appear a single crow, standing just the right distance from the speeding cars, almost obscured by the tall weeds. Perhaps the road's edge is a good spot for gleaning bugs or to await road kill. I didn't see any other birds until somewhere in New Hampshire, when I counted four vultures soaring over the highway.

Just by chance the crow

poses prettily with the

roadside wildflowers. 

July 15: Child's play

We spent some time today catching up with an old friend from college and her sweet, tow-headed, three-year-old son Henry. The morning's activities included a lovely plein air brunch, a romp on the capitol lawn, and a visit to two different farms. Henry got to feed goats, pat a sheep, admire some rabbits, a small, white-faced calf, and a donkey, slurp a maple creamee (Vermont's version of soft-serve), and sit on two tractors (one defunct antique, one modern and working). Amazing how little boys are drawn to large machinery at such a young age, as if they were born knowing how to make that "vroom vroom" sound.

Under the child's feet
as he runs for the tractor,
tiny pink flowers.

July 14: Misty mountains

Visiting a dear friend in Vermont, my second favorite state to spend time in. The feeling I get when I cross the bridge on I-89 outside Lebanon, NH, into Vermont, is very similar to the little thrill I get crossing the Piscataqua River Bridge to return home to Maine: this is a place I belong. These cornfields and rolling green hills and the roiling White River and road cuts of schist that I studied in college geology classes, they are familiar and loved. I'm particularly fond of Montpelier, with its gold-domed Capitol, historic buildings, funky shops, views of the Green Mountains, and a river running through it. So today I'm in one of my happy places with one of my closest friends.

As if in a dream--
distant mountains in a haze
beckon me onward.
 

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July 13: Pre-dawn

I'm not a morning person, so the wee hours of the day are always a revelation to me. Unfortunately, things weighing on my mind have left me wide awake at a ridiculously early hour. It's too bad, really, that this isn't a natural habit for me, as this is a wonderful time of day--watching the pale sky slowly brighten and deepen into blue as the song sparrow sings from the still-dark trees and crows stir upriver, breaking the peace in our otherwise quiet neighborhood...

Pre-dawn, crows yelling--
what is there to shout about?
The day's still so young.

July 12: Summer clouds

During this idyllic spell of summer weather, the clouds have been spectacular--big, fluffy cumulus clouds that roll across the sky's blue canvas, adding texture and dimension to its bright expanse without lingering too long, blocking the sun, or releasing any rain.

Beech Nut, the sod-roofed stone hut on Beech Hill Preserve, and clouds

Clouds amass above the Megunticook River, as viewed from my office

Blue screen, white brushstrokes--
a folding Japanese screen,
"Sky with clouds and birds."

July 11: Chimney swifts

Another perfect summer evening. Sat outside at a local bistro, alone, sipping a cocktail, periodically looking up to admire the expanse of blue sky. Eventually the chittering of chimney swifts filled the air--my energetic dining companions.

This sky, it's flawless,
till swifts fly all over it.
Then, it comes alive.

July 10: Beech Hill kind of afternoon

Today was one of those days I truly loved my job: enjoyed a business lunch on the sunny outside deck of the Waterfront on Camden Harbor, spent a couple of hours in the office, then led a group up Beech Hill in Rockport for the rest of my afternoon. If you have to work, what better way to enjoy a perfect summer day here in midcoast Maine?

Here's how this idyllic day looked from up there:

View of Penobscot Bay from Beech Hill

View of Ragged Mountain from the road

Historic sod-roofed stone hut at top of Beech Hill

Follow sparrow song
through fields of sunlit lilies
all the way to sky.

July 9: Perfume of the leaves

With hours left of sunlight and blue sky after work today, my husband and I walked into town. On the way we passed under a huge tree, its boughs hanging down all around us like an umbrella. We realized when we were under this green umbrella that the tree was flowering, the cloying but sweet perfume filling the air. It stopped us in our tracks. Dozens of bees hummed amid the leaves, tucked up in the fragrant blossoms. 

The leaves and bark of the tree made me think it was some kind of aspen or cottonwood, although I couldn't find it in any of my books. Most native aspens have a long, drooping flower like a tassel, but not our aromatic tree, which abounded with small, subtle, creamy white flowers. If we hadn't smelled them, we probably wouldn't have even noticed that the tree was flowering under its leafy green canopy.

Perfume of the leaves
and hum of bees draws us in--
summer seduction.

Later: After I posted this, a persevering reader sent me several options for what kind of tree this might have been. He got it in three: American Basswood. Thank you, Kirk Betts! Here's a photo from Wikipedia:

American Basswood

I particularly enjoy that it turned out to be a basswood, which is also known as a linden tree here in the United States. The origin of my surname "Lindquist" is "linden," so I've always thought of lindens as a sort of family emblem--even if I can't recognize one when I see it!

July 8: Flowering

Suddenly, my garden is full of blooming flowers again! This mid-summer wave of flowering, amid the chaos of unweeded greenery that is the front yard, brings some of my favorites: the sunset-purple clematis climbing the porch railing, a succession of day lilies in orange, red, pink, and more orange, and the tall, cardinal-red bee balm that attracts hummingbirds. And soon, the bright purple stars of echinacea will join in, as well. 

Midsummer again--
orange lilies open for 
their day in the sun. 

  

July 7: Old mill

My husband and I have a new writing room: a rented office/studio space in the renovated Knox Woolen Mill building in the heart of downtown Camden. Our windows are directly over one of the dams that used to be part of the millworks. In fact, the controls to the dam itself are located in a corner of our studio, with a little sign indicating how long it takes to raise or lower the dam. Since we've gotten a lot of rain, the river is still running high. The drop over the dam is substantial, creating a vigorously churning waterfall that will serve us effectively as a white noise machine when we're hard at work.

The big windows of our third floor studio frame an interesting view. On the other side of the river sits the part of the old mill that was converted to condominiums, several of which boast nice decks. A mature oak tree grows up through a hole cut into one deck, its leafy branches blocking a view of Mount Battie which we will undoubtedly enjoy come winter. If you lean out the window, the mill's smokestack rises high into blue sky above the mill buildings and the fast-moving river. On the mill pond of calm water behind the dam, a family of geese hangs out amid the reeds. And on Saturday mornings and Wednesday afternoons, the Camden Farmers' Market is visible through the trees in the mill parking lot.

When I was five, we lived for a while with my great-grandmother in her apartment across the street from the mill. It was still very much a working mill then, and I remember hearing the daily whistles for lunchtimes and shift changes, as well as the machinery clacking away day and night. I had to walk past the mill to get to kindergarten, and I always hurried over the dark, turbulent river as it flowed beneath the mill and under the street on its way to the harbor. Thanks to my great-grandmother's vivid warnings, I could imagine all too well what would happen to me if I fell in. Now my studio overlooks that very stretch of river. Hopefully it will once again spark my imagination.

White water: white noise.
I lose my thoughts in the falls,
river of childhood.

View of the old mill buildings from a neighboring office