March 20: Spring Equinox

Spring is officially here at last! I celebrated the Vernal Equinox by spending the whole of this amazingly warm day outside raking my lawn. In shorts and a t-shirt at that. Now I think I'm going to spend what's left of my day on the couch popping ibuprofen. Raking is a full body activity, and after five straight hours of it, my whole body's in pain. But it's a good pain, the soreness of muscles from doing something vigorous and strenuous outdoors. And such satisfying work--I can see my actual lawn again after months of looking out on a carpet of dead leaves and dirty snow. The dried grass, while not much more attractive, at least looks well-combed now. Tulips and daffodils I had forgotten were out there have been revealed, their green shoots now exposed to sun. The sword tips of iris leaves emerge, and the baby chives would probably already taste good in a salad. My quince, lilac, and rhododendron bushes all appear to have survived the winter well; leaf buds are beginning to swell along their branches. Ah, the joy of fresh greenery.

While I worked, I felt like I had emerged from hibernation and was once again part of my neighborhood. My next-door neighbors kindly lent me their wheelbarrow for the day while they rototilled their garden. The kids across the street rode their bikes up and down the sidewalk, talked about swimming in the river (ice-out on Megunticook Lake was officially declared yesterday), and then spent a few hours loudly playing in their back yard. So reassuring to see children spending their days outside doing things. I periodically paused to chat with neighbors walking or driving by. A day like this puts everyone in good spirits, as we all luxuriate in the warm spring air.

The song sparrow that arrived back yesterday flitted about the backyard. Blue jays jeered. Titmice and cardinals sang distant love songs. A nuthatch called briefly. Crows cawed in response to a barking dog. All was as it should be on the first day of spring. The annual process of renewal has truly begun, and no matter what weather we get in the next month or so--it could still snow--there's no stopping it now.

Vernal equinox--
daylight has caught up with night,
green world stirs to life.

May 19: Young Moon

The sky was wide and clear over open fields tonight as we left our friends' house in Lincolnville. Directly overhead, red Mars shone. Leo the Lion crouched below Mars, ready to pounce. The Big Dipper has tipped sideways now, about to spill its ethereal contents northward. To the east, bright Sirius has risen above Hatchet Mountain, Orion even higher. And to the northeast, above the house but below the smudge of the Pleaides, the waxing crescent Moon. A thin sliver of a moon, barely born. And within the embrace of the horns of the Moon, the shadowy visage of the rest of the Moon was visible, the old Moon in the new Moon's arms.

Although I've seen this phenomenon often, I've never really thought about what caused it. It turns out we can see the entire Moon because sunlight reflecting off the Earth--earthshine--casts enough light to make it so. But the scientific explanation seems much less romantic than the image of the old and new Moons embracing to become one.

We drove down the long driveway with the window open, hoping to hear a woodcock or an owl. We didn't hear a thing, but the stars--the billions and billions of stars--were everywhere.

Waxing crescent Moon
holds the old Moon in her arms.
We all seek wholeness.

March 18: Field o' Robins

Driving to Rockland this morning I passed a field full of robins. This was the very field on Meadow Rd. above which I spotted my first-of-year vulture not so long ago, so maybe I should just camp out there in my quest for signs of spring. This morning it was robins, the first I've seen in the past month or so that I feel certain are "inbound" birds, not lingering, wintering birds from Canada. As they migrate north, these spring robins can be seen in great numbers spread out across farm fields, probing the recently thawed soil for worms and other goodies. Each one seems to have its own patch, just a few feet from another robin. The blacker-looking birds with brighter red breasts are the males; the females look slightly faded alongside. Today's group seemed to be a mixed-gender flock. It won't be long now before I hear the robin's rollicking "cheery-up, cheery-o" song in my yard right about this time of day, as the sun sets behind the treeline. In my neighborhood, they're usually the first bird I hear when I awake and the last I hear before dark.

Muddy, untilled field--
to the migrating robins,
a moist chocolate cake.

March 17: Bird Poker

The one bonus of daylight savings time: last night there was enough light after I left work that I could run outside instead of having to go to the gym. It truly felt like spring, and my steps were lighter for it. House finches and cardinals sang as I ran down my street, doves flushed from the roadside, and a pair of geese glided together up the river. There's a section of Route 105 where fields open to the river and a wide vista of the Tablelands and Mount Megunticook. I was just about there when I happened to look up, and I almost stopped in my tracks. Above me swirled a kettle of many vultures. I tried to count them while not straying into the ditch or the path of an oncoming car. Twenty-one! Previously I had only seen four at once. Now they seemed to be back in force.

A little further on, I looked up again. The birds were more spread out this time, lower, just above the treeline, perhaps heading in to roost on Bald Mountain. It was, after all, almost 6:00 p.m. They were easier to count, and I again tallied twenty-one big black birds soaring westward. Twenty-one vultures. Blackjack! All black cards, too. Amusing myself with this poker metaphor, I ran on. I often run with a song in my head to help keep my pace up. What came to mind then was Sting's "Shape of My Heart": "I know that the spades are the swords of a soldier. I know that the clubs are weapons of war. I know that diamonds mean money for this art, but that's not the shape of my heart..." A lovely song. A good song for soaring raptors.

Farther along 105 as it comes close to the river, I got my jackpot. I just happened to look up and see a very large bird fly over my head. At first I thought it was one of those vultures, it was so big. But when I could see its plumage patterns, I realized it was a hawk. A big hawk. But not a red-tail. Because it flapped those big wings a few times, then glided, then flapped a few more times with slow strength, then glided across the river and into the pines. Distinctive flight pattern of an accipiter. According to Hawks in Flight by Peter Dunne, David Sibley, and Clay Sutton, "Rule of thumb: any bird that is first identified as a buteo and turns out to be an accipiter may safely be called a Goshawk." (Italics theirs.) But before I even got home and read that sentence, I already knew I had seen a goshawk. Some things you just know. I also knew that I'd been dealt a very lucky hand that day.

Twenty-one vultures:
winning handful of black cards.
My jackpot: goshawk!

March 16: Coltsfoot

Each day brings a new hint of spring. Today at work as we were engaged in our annual stint of yard work, we came across a couple of coltsfeet blooming under the pine tree out front. Coltsfoot is usually one of the earliest wildflowers to bloom, and it seems to like the lawn of the Land Trust office--especially a moist swath down by the river that at its peak almost glows with a conglomeration of coltsfoot constellations. It was a refreshing reward for our labors to come across the bright yellow faces of this little flower, which is often mistaken for a dandelion. It gets its name from its hoofprint-shaped leaves, which haven't even sprouted yet. No green here, just the flower heads atop their scruffy stalks poking up out of last year's dead grass and weeds. Coltsfoot's genus name Tussilago means "cough supressant," and herbal pharmacies sell extracts of coltsfoot to help cure lung problems. But right now, the thumbnail-sized blossoms amid the pine needles--in addition to the bright sun we've enjoyed all day--are working for me as mood enhancers.

This year's flowers might be a little earlier than usual. I took this photo at my office on 14 April 2005.

Small suns amid weeds--

early flowers make us smile.

Reward for raking.

March 15: Pussy Willows

Out a window at the back of the office, along a sunny wooded edge: pussy willows! One big bush was busting out all over with fluffy white catkins neatly aligned along the naked branches. Every since I learned the "Pussy Willow Song" as a kid, I've always been excited to see the first pussy willows of spring: "I know a little pussy. Her coat is silver gray. She lives down in the meadow, not very far away..."

Photo courtesy of Wikipedia Commons

Besides their cuteness factor, pussy willows are also interesting from cultural and biological perspectives:

• According to Wikipedia, some Christians in northern climates who don't have access to palm leaves apparently carry boughs of pussy willows instead. Makes practical as well as symbolic sense to me.
• The pussy willow flower, which the catkin eventually blooms into, is an important early source of pollen for native bees. And our native bees need all they help they can get.
• Studies have shown that pussy willow flower nectar is very high in sugar content. Good to know if you're lost in the spring woods--just suck on a bunch of pussy willows.
• Many species of willow contain salicin in their bark, which is the basis for salicylic acid, a natural analgesic commonly known to us as aspirin. Also probably good to know if you're lost in the woods.

All very interesting, but really, what I love is that pussy willows embody the essence of renewal in early spring, the bare branches suddenly bursting to life with catkins while the leaves are still tight buds. I can never resisting cutting a branch or two to bring inside. If left in a vase without water, they'll last a long time. And while I'm at it, I usually cut a few boughs of forsythia, as well, to force their sunny blossoms (water required) a few weeks ahead of schedule. In Maine we get impatient for spring, so we make it happen.

Pussy willow buds

in coats of silver gray--spring,

childhood songs return.

 

March 14: Moss

On this dreary day of cold rain, I've been wistfully looking out my back window. A pair of crows caws in duet with my neighbor's dog's barking. The river seems to be at a normal water level again after a few days of looking at lines of exposed rocks; the Town must have adjusted the dam upstream. The bare trees show no hint of ever bearing leaves. Rain softly, steadily drums its fingers on the roof. I'm reminded of the last line of a poem by e.e. cummings: "nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands." (Though he's out of vogue now, e.e. cummings' poetry includes some of the most romantic love poems.)

Anxious to find something to lift my spirits, I've been fixating on my shed roof. My eyes are drawn to the bright chartreuse color of the moss on the roof's north-facing side. It's a vibrant, almost electric green. Years ago on a hot summer night on a porch surrounded by lawn and lush fields, a group of friends and I shared a bottle of Chartreuse. Until that evening, I didn't know what Chartreuse was, and hadn't realized that the color name came from the actual color of this liqueur made by French monks out of a veritable garden of herbal extracts. (Their original monastery was in the Chartreuse mountains.) We decided that because it was made by monks, it must be a spiritual sort of drink that would fill us with the green energy of all the plants that made it. It tasted like fresh grass translated into alcohol, distilling into a drink the verdant beauty of the fields that surrounded us. We were imbibing the very place itself, and it felt like magic.

Now this freakish moss, the only green I can see out my window on this mid-March day, has brought me back to that moment. I can almost taste it.

Only green in sight:
chartreuse moss on my shed roof.
The world will revive.

March 13: Open Window

I readily admit I'm a wimp about the cold. So that might explain how momentous it was for me this afternoon, despite the lingering chill in the air, to open the window over my desk. My initial purpose was to see if I could figure out what was going on with the cawing, swirling gang of about eight crows out back. (They must have been playing some kind of indecipherable crow game, because no other bird or beast seemed to be involved.) Once I got the window open, however, and felt real live air pouring in, I realized that it had probably been months since I last opened a window. I could hear the crows, of course, as well as the neighbor's barking dog, the quiet white noise of the river, sociable mallards cruising up and down the banks in interchanging pairs, a scolding squirrel, and the rustle of crisp, wind-tossed leaves blanketing our yard. Now, even though I'm freezing, I'm hesitant to close the window and cut myself off again from what's going on out there. Although, every time a gust of winds stirs up all those dead leaves, it's reminding me that soon I'll have to undertake my annual chore of raking the yard to expose my flower beds and lawn to what will hopefully be the kinder, gentler air of spring.

An open window:
rustle of dead leaves, crisp breeze.
Not quite warm enough.

March 12: Birches

While I have a birch tree or two in my backyard, this entry was not inspired by any birch I've seen today. Today is my friend Shannon's birthday. (Happy birthday, Shan!) We've known each other since high school, and in thinking about her today, I was reminded of some of the antics we shared more than 25 years ago. We would cruise around listening to the Grateful Dead (American Beauty) or Bob Dylan (Freewheelin' Dylan) really loud. When a song came on that we particularly liked, say, "Box of Rain," she'd enthusiastically honk the horn a few times. And when the music wasn't blasting, we'd share those deep conversations you only have as a teenager, about music and art and places we wanted to visit in the world. Shannon was daring and creative in ways that I was not; she inspired me with her rebellious independence.

We were (and are) admirers of the artist Neil Welliver, a nationally known painter who lived in Lincolnville. Shannon's parents owned a beautiful print of his that I coveted depicting the night sky over Pitcher Pond. As the next best thing, I owned a big poster of his painting Birches, which I loved because it so perfectly captured the light and beauty of the local woods. That image followed me to college and, until a few years ago, hung on my office wall. Sometimes when Shannon and I were driving around, we would come across a scene of wintry birches like that on my poster, and she would honk the horn. For my "senior gift" before high school graduation, I was given a laminated copy of the Robert Frost poem "Birches." I'm sure Shannon was behind that. We reconnected as friends years after high school, and she still possesses that same spontaneous, contagious sense of unselfconscious joy. And she still inspires me.

Friends then and friends now.
Birches make me think of you,
recall youth's freedoms.

March 11: Church Bells

When I got out of my car in my driveway tonight, I heard bells ringing in the twilight. I have no idea where the musical chiming was coming from--perhaps the church up on Cobb Road, though it sounded closer. The sky overhead was the deep clear blue of a cathedral ceiling. It was a lovely, profound, mysterious moment--offering a perfect mental transition from work to the relaxations of home.

Church bells at twilight.
Soon the spring evenings will ring
with calls of wild geese.

March 10: End of Day

These late afternoons when the light lingers temper the end of my work day. Instead of anxiously rushing to finish up this task or that report, I find myself standing at the window looking out at the river reflecting these last bits of light. This is the time of day when those last golden rays of sunlight slant through the bare trees, and birds (and people) head home for the night. The vultures tilt and glide their way to their mountain roosts, ducks fly past in quick, small flocks, and chickadees make one last visit to the feeder (in fact, here's one now, as I type). Somehow leaving work with some remaining daylight doesn't seem so hard on one's state of mind as leaving in the pitch dark. There's still some time left to gather oneself, to do something, even if it's just looking out the window as dark settles, waiting for streetlights to come on and stars to brighten over the mountain.

Mallards fly upstream,
set down on reflected trees--
remains of the day.