December 3: Scarf

mist lifting off

the mountain ridge

winter scarf

October 2: Spark

ginger candies
up on the ridge 
a single red tree

September 13: Red

How to ignore it:

up on the mountain

first glimpse of red leaves.

October 2: Sunday afternoon

Football on the radio.

More red leaves glowing

on the mountainside.

Posted with Blogsy

August 6: Cumulus

The weight of summer--

all day clouds gather and shift

atop the mountain.

Posted with Blogsy

January 26: Before the storm

Blizzard warnings.
Clouds shut down the last blue sky,
sink over the mountain.

December 12: Revelation

Morning, parting clouds--
only the highest ridgeline
covered now with snow

March 3: Sun and snow

The sky brightens at Owls Head Lighthouse, as we look across the water toward the Camden Hills, where snowfall veils the summits of Bald and Ragged Mountains, and clouds hang heavy over Megunticook and Mount Battie. With spotting scopes we find offshore one loon beginning to get its spotted breeding plumage back, some guillemots, and a lone Razorbill.

Lone loon afloat on cold seas,
lowering clouds.
Our light won't last.

January 8: Landslide

Many years, even decades, ago, there was a landslide up on the north end of the Mount Megunticook ridge line. I don't remember it happening, but growing up it was always very noticeable from a distance: it left a long stony scar down the upper slope. Over the years the slide's path has been slowly filling in as trees have grown in around it, so the visual impact has lessened. But I noticed today that the old scar is more visible right now while it's covered in snow and the trees are bare of leaves.

Landslide highlighted by snow.
Even old scars
still remind us of loss.

December 29: Misty mountaintop fadeaway

The title of this post sounds a bit like a cross between something from The Hobbit and a Dead song, but the moment was real enough. My husband and I decided we needed to get lunch and treats at Morse's Sauerkraut before the snow storm hits tonight. Driving there, we passed austere snow-covered fields and trees laden with snow under a bleak, blank sky. As we headed home, the first flakes began to fall. As we drove into Camden, cresting a hill that offers a view toward the Mount Megunticook ridge line, we noticed how snowfall along the top of the mountain made it seem to simply fade away into the white sky.

Mountaintop fades into white
snowfall. In dreams
it's like that when I die.

March 29: Snow on daffodils

These early spring snowfalls can be painful, especially if you've been teased by "real" spring weather already--air like warm breath on the back of your neck that made you sweat, that whispered sweet nothings about swelling leaf buds and opening flowers. We woke this morning to more snow falling, though accumulation was minimal. They call this late snow "poor man's fertilizer," because it's supposed to somehow help the greening. Once it melts, of course. And my lawn does look like it's reviving a bit.

In our garden right now, bright green shoots of chives look positively savory. Bulbs--lilies and tulips--are sending forth an advance guard of greenery. The rosy tips of peonies are poking through the surface of the soil. And I already had to pull up some dandelions. But the view from our front step, looking up at Mount Battie, resonates with the misplaced glory of the season past: the mountain's crags and ledges frosted with snow. The white ridgeline of larger, higher Mount Megunticook, visible up the street, is even more dramatic. I feel like we're living right on the threshold between two seasons struggling for power, winter on one side and spring on the other. What makes it bearable, what makes it possible to enjoy the delicate beauty of the snowy mountains despite my longing for heat, is that I know spring will eventually win out.

Daffodils' green necks
barely bend beneath the snow.
They too wait for sun.