7 November 2022 (mist)

November mist

we never see

all of the moon

1 November 2022 (morning fog)

morning fog

November begins

with a blank slate

November 1: Birding in Portland

A stretch of woods below Portland's Western Prom used to shelter a significant number of homeless people. When we birded in that area, we would come across makeshift shelters, piles of clothes, and other heart-breaking signs that people were living there. Now many of the trees have been cut down, opening up the woods: it's no longer good bird habitat, but more importantly, it's no longer good shelter for those humans who needed it. It's not like those who stayed there vanished into thin air when the woods were cleared. As the calendar turns to chilly November, where have they found shelter?

city trees cut down--
sadder to think the homeless
have lost even this

November 19: Riverwatch

no ducks here
late season fishermen
river calm enough to freeze

November 2: First snow

Wind whipping tree boughs
snow on perfect gold leaves
even the cat's anxious

November 30: End of November

River not yet frozen.
A single beech leaf shivers
against an ice-blue sky.

November 12: Blue birds, bleak sky

The other night I dreamt I saw three bluebirds together on a branch. Then I saw them in real life.

Yesterday I indulged in birding for the entire day, moving around the Midcoast to some of my favorite spots. I started off by spending several hours on Beech Hill, hiking all the trails, scanning fields and woods along the way. But the highlight of that outing was at the very beginning, when I was walking alongside the first, lower blueberry field. It was mown recently, and that seemed to have attracted a flock of bluebirds. The strikingly bright birds were foraging in the field, perching in trees in small clusters together along its edge, and even singing. On a bleak November morning with a frost-white sky, posed on leafless branches and amid sere, cropped blueberry plants, the bluebirds were easily the most vivid aspects of the landscape. I watched them for a long time, and when I finally looked away and continued on up the hill, I could hear their songs echoing behind me.

Even more beautiful
than birds in a dream--
bluebirds on bleak barrens.

November 14: November Rain

At the end of the Juice conference tonight, the buzz of people leaving the opera house spilled out onto the wet sidewalk shining under streetlights. I left feeling inspired, intellectually stimulated, and energized by all the people I had listened to or spoken with during the day-long event. But as I walked the few blocks to my car, away from the hum of excitement and the warmth of the lights of Main Street, the chilly, rainy evening soon draped a cloak of moodiness over my shoulders. Alone, I hurried in the dark to where my car sat by itself in the corner of a near-empty lot. I suddenly felt drained and exhausted; all I wanted to do was get home, knowing that when I got there I would see lights on behind the window blinds for the first time in a week.

The last line of this poem is pulled directly from a Guns N' Roses' song called "November Rain," which is also covered beautifully by Gheto Blaster Ltd. The song perfectly evokes the mood of this bleak season, as well as the usual themes of love and loss that seem to fit so perfectly with this time of year when we are losing the living green world as we know it for one of long nights, cold rain, and bare branches.

Leaves slick underfoot

as I walk from light to dark--

cold November rain.

November 4: Crows at Dusk

I've had better days. I got to work late because allergies had me feeling low this morning. The disappointing election results defeating the gay marriage bill--and reading all the messages of pain and sadness from friends gay and straight around the country--certainly didn't help raise my spirits. I'm still adjusting to the fact that by the end of my work day it's full night outside, pitch black dark. I can't even see the way to my car without the aid of that little flashlight on my key chain. And my husband's away, so I came home to a chilly, empty house to microwave a lame frozen dinner for myself (my husband is the cook in the family).

I don't say all this to vent and whine about my life or about politics--I don't want this to be that kind of blog (though some may argue that everything I write is about my life in some way, and/or that everything is political). Instead, I include these details about my day as a way to explain the stark mood that settled on me at about 4:30 p.m., when dusk began to creep in behind the increasingly bare branches, and the passing cries of the local crows sounded almost desperate. Personal mood affects the way you perceive the world. And how you express it creatively. So here is my bleak November afternoon, distilled into 17 syllables:

Crows fly past, cawing

as the afternoon deepens--

dark feathers, branches.

(Because I don't like to linger in darkness for too long, however, I hasten to add that I actually enjoy this particular frozen dinner (Ethnic Gourmet's palak paneer) and am looking forward to curling up on the couch with my cat to watch Pedro Martinez pitch in Game 6 of the World Series tonight.)