19 August 2024 (the widow says)

the widow says

August is a hard month

stacked clouds

August 22: On the trail

We hiked in to spend the night at Poplar Stream Falls Hut, part of the Maine Huts & Trails network near Sugarloaf Mountain.

On the trail, late August--

goldenrod abuzz with bees,

one red poplar leaf.

August 24: Weskeag Marsh

My husband and I visited Weskeag Marsh this morning, a salt marsh in nearby South Thomaston that this time of year can be teeming with migrating shorebirds. Numbers were scant on the rising tide--just a handful of yellowlegs and "peeps" and a gathering of egrets almost out of sight in the back of the marsh--but it was a beautiful morning to stand in the fading weeds at the marsh's edge, soak up some sun, listen to the crickets, and just be.

cicada's long whine
reeds waver in heat shimmer
single yellowlegs

August 20: Summer day

August hay fields--
tractor makes long windrows,
green apples swell.

August 1: First day of August

A new month begins, summer creeps ever onward. After a rainy morning, I felt fortunate to stand in the sun this afternoon on a creaky old dock on a pond in Morrill, surrounded by purple pickerelweed flowers waving above the water's surface and darting dragonflies. We could see little fish swimming in the shallow water around the dock. A kingfisher rattled in the distance. And after we hiked through the pines back up the trail, we finally heard a loon call--not a cry of alarm, but that simple call of a loon declaring its presence on the small, bright pond.

Now August begins.
From the lily-choked pond, loon
calls forth the new month.

August 29: Last Bird in the Woods

After work I went for a trail run on Ragged Mountain, starting at the Snow Bowl. It's been a while since I've done a trail run. My lungs weren't quite up to the first stage, following the trail partway up the mountain before turning south into the woods. But once I could catch my breath, I settled in to enjoy the softness of the damp forest floor beneath my feet, the familiar earthy smells of leaf litter, mud, and moss, the punctuation marks of mushrooms after the weekend's rain, and the rocks and roots forcing me to pay attention to where I placed each foot. The recent storm had left a lot of branches strewn across the trail, as well, including one large, nut-laden beech branch.

It was only 6:00 pm but the woods were already darkening when I set out. The sun has begun to set noticeably sooner these days, with just a few days left in August. I couldn't tell if my few stumbles on my return run (it was an up/out-and-back/down route) were a result of not being able to see the shadowy trail so well or my general tiredness from bouncing off bumps and hillocks. The "come here" whistle of a pewee beckoned me onward. That was the only bird I heard so late in the day. But running that late was well worth it if just to see, as I reached the bottom of the mountain again, Bald Mountain green and glowing in the last sunlight, a lush backdrop for a field full of young soccer players.

Near the end of my run I also startled a woodchuck traversing across the ski slope. It paused to watch me for a moment, then bounded with surprising speed into the woods. Maybe instead of pretending I'm a deer or a wild cat on my trail runs, I should be emulating a woodchuck instead.

Pewee's low, clear call
summons me out of the woods
just before sunset.

August 21: Fire Hydrant

Dense fog has settled over the midcoast, as often happens this time of year: 100% humidity. Even the crows' cawing in the yard sounds a bit muffled. A short run left me soaking wet (not to be too gross or anything), the moist, warm air clinging to my skin, mingling with my sweat. Mount Battie was completely hidden by the mist.

This time of year, I particularly enjoy how the goldenrod in the fields glows so brightly on these muted mornings. One family along my running route mows only the lawn directly in front of their house; the rest of the yard, between the strip of lawn and the road, they let grow wild. Chipping sparrows, doves, and goldfinches seemed to enjoy this, as well, as that's where they were all hanging out today. Right now, that roadside field is rife with blooming goldenrod, made all the more stunning by the fact that the backdrop, their house, is bright red with lime green trim.

But what struck my eye the most on my little outing was, oddly, coming upon a newly painted, vividly red fire hydrant tucked away in the roadside weeds. The town has been repainting all its fire hydrants this summer in an attempt to make them more visible, and that certainly worked with this one. I must have passed it a hundred times on my runs and never noticed it amid all the surrounding greenery. In its way it was on the same fog-busting color scale as the goldenrod. And in its way, on this quiet, muggy, foggy morning, just as beautiful.

It's not a cardinal,
but this hydrant's shade of red
also makes me smile.

August 5: Starry starry night

We stepped out of a friend's house on Owls Head harbor on this starry night and heard the music of the spheres. Well, it was actually music drifting across the water from the Lobster Festival in Rockland. But on this clear summer evening--with a first quarter moon rising from behind the trees and billions and billions of stars overhead--it seemed like some sort of celestial event.

As we drove home, my husband and I talked about what it must have been like back before there was any ambient light, when the night sky and all its stars were perfectly clear and visible, undiminished. No wonder the stars were so much more important in people's lives then. They could actually see them on a regular basis, learn their patterns, track them. I wonder what the best place on earth is to observe the night sky now. The wilds of Alaska? Somewhere in the middle of the Rockies? The Gobi Desert? An uninhabited tropical island? The Himalayas? I know I've camped in places in the past where the night sky was startlingly clear, packed with stars--the kind of sky that when you climb out of your tent in the middle of the night, you just stand there in utter rapture, your sense of self lost before the broad spectacle of the universe.

Even with the street light pollution near our house, we still felt a small sense of awe when we stepped out of our car and looked up. And here, the crickets are trilling. Who's to say they aren't harmonizing with the many distant suns twinkling overhead?

August: crickets, stars,
waxing moon rising slowly.
These are the best nights.

August 31: Rattle and Hum

Last day of August. The evening air throbs with the music of crickets and other insects. Slowly the sun sinks behind the trees, but heat lingers. The air is very still as if it, like me, is too hot for movement. As I refill the bird feeders (the birds, at least, were active today, draining the thistle sock of every last little seed), a kingfisher rattles not far off, above the river. The river flows through a shaded tunnel of trees, and I imagine how deliriously wonderful it must feel for the bird to dive into that cool water.

Joy is everywhere:
in kingfisher's noisy dive,
in twilight's soft hum.

August 2: Big Dipper

We got home late tonight after seeing a movie, and the clear, starry sky curved over our heads as we stood in the driveway unloading our stuff. There was the Big Dipper with its ladle full of night, poised upright above the house, reminding me that north is "up the street." Whenever I see the Big Dipper, by habit I follow the imaginary line made by the two stars on the right side of the cup up to Polaris, the North Star, my touchstone in the night sky in any season--all the other stars pivot around it as night and the seasons progress.

I paused a moment in the front lawn to take it in, all that celestial beauty, and the background humming of crickets seemed to be the music of the spheres, emanating from the heavens themselves.

August night, crickets--
stars dance around Polaris.
Supernal music.