March 19: Open window

Such a beautiful day today that by mid-afternoon I opened my office window to let in some air. I think it was warmer outside than in. Not a minute later, I heard the buzz of a fly ricocheting around the room. I guess if it's warm enough to crack open the windows, it's warm enough to need to replace the screens.

Outside the office, the resident pair of Canada geese spent the morning grazing on the lawn near the dam, and later, I saw them paddling on the completely ice-free river. A couple of fishermen stopped by on their lunch breaks to test the waters, but didn't appear to have any success.

After work while on my run I saw a woman out on her patio grilling burgers.

Despite the night's chill
I keep the window open
a few minutes more.

March 18: Into the woods

With temperatures in the 70s, a hike was in order. And apparently it was in order for everyone else in town, too, because my first choice for a hike--Bald Mountain--was over-booked, with cars spilling out of the parking lot and up the street. So I headed to one of the Ragged Mountain trailheads and happily found myself alone there. Well, with no human company, anyway, unless you count the guys training their bird dogs in a nearby field down the road.

I brought binoculars because with weird warm weather like this, I didn't know what new spring arrival I might come across. I was hoping for a phoebe or perhaps a fox sparrow. Instead, the first bird I saw was a Bohemian waxwing--a boreal breeder that often strays southward during the winter months. A small flock of seven birds hung out in the treetops near the parking area. As with the snowy owl I saw on Friday, they've been observed by many birders this winter. I just hadn't managed to come across any until today. I'm really pushing the envelope with my winter bird sightings this year. It made me feel that I was diverted to the other trail for this good reason alone: to appreciate the beauty of these winter visitors and enjoy their soft trills, even as I could also hear a brown creeper singing his sweet, clear spring song and a pileated woodpecker calling loudly from deep in the woods.

A red-tailed hawk soared over the parking area as I set off up the trail, probably one of the resident birds I see every time I come to this part of the mountain. I enjoyed a mellow walk through the awakening woods, relishing the almost-sensuous sunlight, the soft flapping of last year's clinging beech leaves, the clear, unfrozen stream, and a sense of peace among trees slowly stirring back to life. The occasional bird sang from amid still-bare branches, and I sometimes lost the path in my distraction, wandering here and there amid stands of slender trunks shining in the sunlight until I found another blue blaze.

Hiking down the trail--
everything looks different
than when I went up.

March 17: Renewal of the Run Counts

Thanks to this glorious sunshine, this morning it felt warm enough for me to go for my first outdoor run of the year. (I know many runners who run outside year-round, but I'm a real wimp when it comes to cold so would rather take advantage of my Y membership and run inside in winter.) In spring I don't like to run plugged in to my iPod; I prefer to hear birdsong. It's a way of learning what birds have returned. I keep a tally in my head of all the species I hear or see on each outing, trying to top my previous run's count. This morning's total, accumulated while running from my house to the Y (a mere two miles), was eleven:

1. goldfinch
2. tufted titmouse
3. cardinal
4. song sparrow
5. white-breasted nuthatch
6. downy woodpecker
7. Canada goose
8. house finch
9. grackle
10. crow
11. herring gull

Nothing unusual here, but this is just the beginning, just a baseline for the weeks ahead when the woods will once more resound with the renewing songs of birds, and my middle-aged body, fueled by the revitalizing vigor of the season, will push itself to run farther and farther.

My legs have more spring

as I run from bird to bird,

all of us revived.

March 16: Finally!

I've lost track of how many times I've gone to the Samoset to look for the snowy owl first reported there over a month ago. Less than a week from the vernal equinox, I'd given up hope, figuring the owl was on his way back to the Arctic by now. This winter has seen a record number of snowy owl sightings across the country, dozens in Maine alone. I've been feeling like a birding loser, unable to see a snowy owl in the one year when they're virtually everywhere. (One even showed up on Hawaii!) I could have driven three hours down to York to see the one that's spent the winter at Nubble Light, or looked for the one reportedly still lingering at a dairy farm in Clinton, but with all the owls out there, I'd really wanted to see the one closest to home (and which I came so close to seeing back in early February--see post for February 12).

When I heard from two different sources that the Samoset bird was still around, my hope returned. With a use-it-or-lose-it vacation day today, I figured this was my last chance. It's supposed to warm up significantly over the weekend, which will probably send most of our lingering winter birds northward. I headed over to the Samoset directly from a massage, figuring the relaxed frame of mind would help my quest. One person I know had seen it near the ponds, so I parked near them and walked the paved path through the golf course from there. Many geese, but no owl near the ponds. I heard my first blackbirds of the season singing from the reeds. No owl visible on the golf course. No owl visible on roof tops. I decided that at the very least I could walk along the shore bluff and count waterfowl. A song sparrow flew past. A loon drifted offshore. I looked down at the stony beach...

And there he was: a big, white snowy owl perched on a rock, impassively turning his head to look back at me. I'm a bit embarrassed to admit that I was so relieved and happy to finally see the owl that I burst into tears. I watched him for a while until, satisfied and happy, I finally decided to move on and leave the bird in peace, wishing him a safe flight back to the Arctic tundra and good luck in finding a mate and lots of lemmings to eat there.

I took the long way back to my car to see what other birds were around. Song sparrows, cardinals, and robins were all singing. A flock of grackles flew over. Pairs of ducks bobbed off the breakwater and in one of the resort's ponds. A big harbor seal perched atop one of the rocks offshore, as if beached there by the low tide. Dozens of robins hopped around the golf greens, hoping for worms. A pileated woodpecker swooped past. Clusters of pussy willows edged an alder thicket. A junco trilled from atop a tree. The very air is breathing "spring." I don't know how much longer the owl will linger now, but I am very grateful he hung out long enough.

On spring's wet threshold,
snowy owl lingers, robins
sing their merry songs.

March 15: Ides of March

A headache's driven
out all possibility
of a good poem.

March 14: Watch the road

Doesn't it always happen that when you're in a hurry, the guy driving in front of you is going 20 MPH under the speed limit? And when you finally get past him, that sense of impatience lingers. Fortunately, I took some deep breaths, slowed back down, and relaxed a bit, because just a few minutes later I came to an intersection at which a car was stopped halfway through at an odd angle. No accident. I think the car just died and rolled there. The poor driver was standing there on her cell phone obviously calling for help. Several minutes after that, if I hadn't regained my calm, I might have clipped a turkey. Instead, I was able to watch with a smile as a small flock safely disappeared into the roadside shrubbery. When I finally got to my destination, I felt like I'd successfully run a gauntlet of sorts.

Slowed, I didn't kill
that woodchuck or those turkeys.
A good day to drive.

March 13: Christmas cactus

Last year it didn't flower at all, so this year I guess I'll just think of the Christmas cactus as blooming nine months early. For some reason one of my three Christmas cacti suddenly decided to put forth four translucent pink blossoms worthy of the tropics. In the absence of crocus in my flower beds, I'll take these inside. Hanging by my front window, they make me smile each morning when I raise the blinds. I know that all too soon they'll dry up and drop off... and then it will be another year or two before I see more.

Ephemeral bloom--
for a moment I'm thinking
of warmer places.

March 12: First Grackle

Things are really heating up around here: I saw my first grackles of the season fly over the gas station while I was filling up this afternoon. (The great thing about birding is that you might see a cool bird--and all birds are cool--just about anywhere. As long as you're paying attention.) Many people find grackles annoying. From the blackbird family, they gang up and mob bird feeders, they're loud, and their song--though interesting--can hardly be called music. But watch them closely. In the sunlight that boring black plumage becomes iridescent green and purple, accented by a bright yellow eye. When they fly, the males hold their tails vertically, like little rudders guiding them through the air. And they're one of the first birds of the season to return, certainly cause for celebration as we transition into spring.

Common grackles carry the lovely Latin name of Quiscalus quiscula. (Photo from Wikimedia Commons.)

In a couple months
they'll be "just grackles" again.
Right now they mean "spring."

March 11: Patch of Sun

Spring was in the air and in the quality of the sunlight as my husband and I walked up Beech Hill in Rockport. We saw pussy willows along the muddy trail, and although we saw no sign of the bluebirds that have been hanging out up there the past few days, we did hear many chickadees singing their courtship songs in the alders. I noticed too that the alders, birches, and other small trees visible at a distance in the lower fields are shifting hue as they begin to bud out. The sun felt good on my pale face.

Upon returning home, I wanted to continue to feel the warmth of the day's sun on my body, but our house, bounded as it is by a mountain on one side and many trees on the other, doesn't let in a lot of light. The air still carries enough of winter's chill that hanging outside on the back porch to soak up the last rays of afternoon's sunlight, isn't yet an option. So instead I found myself literally crawling around on the floor trying to find one sunny patch in which to read a book. I ended up in the hall next to the laundry room, light falling across my legs for a brief half hour. My husband gave me an odd look when he found me there. It wasn't even enough light to entice the cat.

The cat too disdains
my tiny patch of precious
early spring sunshine.

March 10: Driving home

Route One north of Portland has some long dark stretches at night, interrupted only by the head and tail lights of other cars and the occasional streetlight or intermittent sign. Then a car dealership will appear, packed with shining cars gleaming under dozens of lights. Or the overlit oasis of a gas station/convenience store, the kind you can always count on to be open no matter how late. Or the night will be punctuated by that "oh my god" moment when you crest a hill and glimpse the recently full moon rising low, orange, and huge--a giant potato of a moon--that puts all the other distractions to shame.

There it is again--
enormous moon, low, rising,
outshining all else.

March 9: Chasing my shadow

Often on longer drives, my mind wanders into more imaginative terrain. Perhaps it's the stimulation of the ever-changing landscape outside the window or the simple thrill of being on the road with blue skies and sunshine around me. As I was driving eastward home from a trip to Bath this afternoon, the setting sun  cast the shadow of my car directly before me on the road. I was tailgating my own shadow. My car is fairly compact, squat-looking from the sun's low angle. I amused myself with the idea that my car's shadow looked some sort of Japanese anime character: the side-view mirrors gave it the appearance of having ears; the two front seat headrests were its eyes. Weird thought, I know. But it helped while away the miles. I was actually a bit disappointed when the sun sank so low that the shadow disappeared; I'd gotten used to thinking of it a separate entity that I was following up Route One.

My car's cast shadow
becomes a strange gray creature
I'm following home.