November 19: Popovers

A chilly breeze blew through the parking lot when we left our hotel for breakfast... And was that a dusting of snow on Mount Mansfield? Lake Champlain, framed by the rugged ridge line of the Adirondacks beyond, was iron gray, deep and cold, its surface ruffled by the raw wind. As, shivering, I admired the view, I was reminded of my college years--the long months of walking around campus freezing yet loving the views of the Adirondacks and the Green Mountains. There's something about Vermont topography that clings to the soul despite the harshness of the elements. (Yes, harsher than Maine--at least the Maine coast, where I'm from.)

The edge was quickly taken off our morning chill when we stepped into Cafe, a favorite spot. Hot green tea with honey, oatmeal, scrambled eggs, bacon, and fresh-baked popovers with butter and jam--along with the company of old, dear friends--started the day off on just the right level of warmth.

Cold-morning breakfast:
Popover, strawberry jam,
and tea, shared with friends.

November 18: Crafts Show

Every year at this time I come to Burlington, Vermont to work at a friend's booth at Craft Vermont, the annual show for the Vermont Handcrafters. Because it's a juried show, the quality of the work is high, and because it's Vermont--as with crafts in the crafty state of Maine--it's also diverse. The booth of the glass artist I work for is near booths of a guy who makes drums out of moose and elk hide, and beautiful flutes and didgeridoos out of wood; a woman wearing shoes worthy of Lady Gaga who makes elaborate, sculptural necklaces; a minimalist landscape photographer; a quilter; a carver of hand-painted bird ornaments and decoys; a sugar house selling maple syrup and maple sugar in various forms; and a print artist who also makes jewelry--colorful, miniature landscapes on pins and earrings. It's inspiring being surrounded by all the products of so many people's creativity, even though working the show till 8pm is also a bit exhausting--thus rendering my own poetic creativity near mute for the day.

How satisfying
to stand here and pound this drum.
Boom boom. So calming.

November 17: Drive to Vermont

Long drive from Maine to Vermont this afternoon. On I93 just outside Manchester, nearing dusk, a flying flock of birds caught my eye. Crows. A lot of them. As I sped past I looked over as best I could and realized the trees were full of them too: a large group roost right next to the highway.

Hour three of driving.
What's that? Roosting flock of crows.
Wow! Hundreds of them!

And then a bit later:

Dark, empty highway.
After five hours, almost there.
Oops! Going 90.

November 16: Peeping Jay

This morning before work I was at my desk when a shadow crossed the window. I looked up to see a blue jay perched on the gutter right outside, seeming to look in at me with those bright eyes as if making sure I was being productive. I could see other jays moving through the trees beyond--the neighborhood flock was clearly on morning patrol.

Humans seem predisposed to ascribe meaning to such experiences. For most of us, a close encounter with any form of wildlife is a notable moment these days, almost a visitation. And that's how I felt today, even though I see those jays all the time. One jay paused and appeared to notice me, to check up on me. I felt singled out. Lucky.

Blue jay checks me out,
leaves. To her I am nothing.
But she marks my day.

November 15: Owls out there

It's a bit early in the season, but already observers are reporting snowy owls. A friend saw two on Seal Island in Penobscot Bay recently. Birders on the Maine birding list-serv have seen them in Wells, Biddeford Pool, and other southern Maine coastal spots. There are currently two hanging out near Duxbury, MA. These multiple sightings are not typical, even in winter. So what's bringing the owls to the beach? Is Maine the Riviera for this Arctic breeder?

The cause of this owl influx is lemmings, the rodents that are a snowy owl's favorite prey on its breeding grounds. When there's an abundance of lemmings, nest success rate is higher. More owls. Come winter, when resources are more limited, owls disperse widely, with younger birds typically having to fly farther afield. They head for habitats similar to the open tundra, like dunes and bare-rock islands. Most of the birds we see here in Maine are these younger birds, recognizable by the more extensive dark patterning on the white feathers. The whiter the owl, the older it is.

I'm excited that this is looking to be a snowy owl boom year here in Maine, because odds are good that one could show up on Beech Hill. They've been seen on the blueberry barrens in the past, and I've always wanted to see one there. One of my co-workers won't be happy till he sees one perched on the sod roof of the stone hut atop the hill. But I'll take just seeing one in the fields. White owls are not just rare around here, they're really cool--almost mystically beautiful--one of those birds I always want to see. Check out these photographs and you'll understand.

Rare owl visitor--
white wings over open fields.
I long to see one.

November 14: Flying Leaves

A gust of (uncharacteristically warm) wind blew through the trees, releasing a burst of brown leaves that flew into the air like a small flock of sparrows. At first glance, I thought they were birds, until they began to drift and swirl slowly, weightlessly to the ground. Sometimes when I'm driving around these days, leaves skitter in front of my car and I almost brake, thinking they're small animals.

Animated leaves
enjoy one last fling before
landing, moldering.

November 13: Dog at Rest

The Rose-Marie and Eijk van Otterloo Collection of 17th century Dutch and Flemish Masterworks is now showing at the Museum of Fine Arts Houston, and I was fortunate enough to see this exhibit on opening night. My favorite painting in the whole collection is this one:

Gerrit Dou 

Leiden 1613–1675 

Dog at Rest, 1650 

Oil on panel 

6 ½ x 8 ½ inches (16.5 x 21.6 cm) 

Notice how small this painting is. And yet you can see every hair on the dog, feel the bark on the twigs-- the brushwork is exquisite. And there's something about this little dog, curled up but with eyes open as if waiting for the owner of that little shoe to show up any second, that makes it incredibly appealing. It's more than a still life, capturing the essence of suspended energy and holding it for more than 350 years. I love this piece, and was very grateful to be able enjoy it one more time in this new venue.

Resting Dutch puppy--

eye open for centuries

waiting for us, now.

November 12: Big Boston Moon

We landed in Boston at 5:30 this evening, which these days feels like midnight because it's already pitch dark, and headed back to my sister's house in a taxi. As we were leaving the environs of the airport, the slightly waning gibbous moon was just rising over the water, dramatically oversized and gold. A big egg yolk moon. We couldn't remember seeing the moon in Houston. It was as if it had been hanging out up here for the past few days, waiting to make such a grand entrance for our return.

Stage lights, center: Moon.
Outshines city lights, transforms
a long taxi ride.

November 11: Souffle

As part of the ongoing sequence of fetes and festivities here in Houston, tonight we enjoyed dinner at Tony's, reportedly one of the best restaurants in the city. The company was charming--people in the South really are very warm and welcoming--and the food exquisite: sushi tuna with avocado, Caesar salad, red snapper Sheridan, and the piece de resistance, four huge Grand Marniere souffles. The souffles were carried in with some ceremony, held aloft so we could all admire them. They looked like baker's hats, only edible. I've never seen anything like them. After some oohing and aahing, the souffles were cut open and served. How to describe the experience of eating the dessert? The sugary meringue-like foam with the custard filling was an incredible treat, as this whole whirlwind trip has been. I feel so grateful for each experience my sister and I have shared together over the past two days here--I've really tried to savor each one, like each bite of an excellent dessert.

Glorious souffles
risen, baked to perfection.
Enjoy your dessert.

November 10: River

Flew from Boston to Houston this morning with my sister. Snoozed a bit and when I awoke, there was an amazing river winding across the landscape out the plane window: S-curves and crescent-shaped ox-bows and sand bars--even the texture of waves on the water's surface was visible. This unexpected perspective on a river was mesmerizing, and I felt vaguely disappointed when we flew past it. I don't have any idea where we were or what river it was.

Seen from an airplane,
the river's a living thing
snaking through green hills.

November 9: Fall Voices

Each morning there's a certain sequence of sounds I expect to hear. The very early morning sound of our neighbor's garbage truck groaning down the hill and braking at the corner as he heads off to his day's work. The creak of my husband's office chair as he ekes out some writing (and news reading) time before I get up. The alarm. The high-pitched yapping of our neighbor's chihuahua, which maintains the same energy and decibel level no matter if it's 6 a.m. or 11 p.m. Birds landing on the window feeder in the kitchen. The school bus at 8 a.m. on the dot, picking up the kids across the street. When the windows are open, the constant rush of the river out back... The regularity of these sounds makes even the most annoying ones somehow comforting. All is on time and as it should be.

This morning as I was getting ready for work, I heard over the sound of the shower what I thought at first was the neighbor's dog barking yet again. Then I realized the sound was a little different--less "yip yip yip" and more like a loud, murmuring conversation: the honking of geese. Their calls grew louder as they flew downriver behind the house, their bodies visible through the (mostly) bare branches. I'd been seeing a flock upriver at work this week, grazing near the Seabright Dam. Were they finally leaving? I felt a sudden pang at the thought.

But then, just as I began to write this, I looked out the window and saw the flock slowly flapping its way back upriver, where they landed just out of sight. Apparently this unseasonably warm, beautiful day has convinced them to stick around a little longer. One more day, at least.

Sounds of a morning:
geese conversing, heading south.
It must be autumn.