19 March 2024 (equinox)
Kristen Lindquist
equinoctial light
northbound buffleheads
halfway there
Book of Days
BOOK OF DAYS: A POET AND NATURALIST TRIES TO FIND POETRY IN EVERY DAY
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Filtering by Tag: bufflehead
16 December 2020 (buffleheads)
Kristen Lindquist
snow on the river . . .
feeding buffleheads
flicker on and off
—I wrote this one for December 2020 New England Letters (which was shared today) in response to the prompt “surprise”
14 February 2019 (ducks)
Kristen Lindquist
Valentine’s Day
ducks on the river
pairing off
October 14: Winter ducks
Kristen Lindquist
Our nesting birds, the orioles and ospreys, have migrated south. And ducks that nested up in the Hudson Bay area this summer are also now migrating south, to the coast of Maine, here for the winter.
first frost
winter ducks returning
from up north
January 14: Frozen
Kristen Lindquist
Two degree morning.
The river has closed its white door
to diving ducks.
The river has closed its white door
to diving ducks.
October 30: Buffleheads
Kristen Lindquist
Count six bobbing ducks,
then thirty. Coldest morning yet.
I hardly notice.
then thirty. Coldest morning yet.
I hardly notice.
April 2: Lingering winter ducks
Kristen Lindquist
Given that it was in the 20s today, you can't blame the wintering ducks for lingering a bit longer before heading to Hudson Bay and environs. This morning a pair of Buffleheads drifted on the river above the Seabright Dam.
A wink of white
as the duck dove, like ice
bobbing in spring runoff.
A wink of white
as the duck dove, like ice
bobbing in spring runoff.
March 15: Hooded Merganser
Kristen Lindquist
Ducks are migrating northward. After only seeing one or two for days, observed a big cluster of Buffleheads on the river late today, along with a half dozen Ring-Necked Ducks and one Hooded Merganser, a male, showing off his full "hood," strutting his stuff upriver in all his glory. A very attractive duck, but no females (of his own species, at least) were around to appreciate him. Also on the water were two pairs of geese and a pair of Mallards. It's that time of year.
Lone merganser drake
on full display.
Ice still edges the river.
Lone merganser drake
on full display.
Ice still edges the river.
March 27: Stirrings of Spring
Kristen Lindquist
Despite cheery blue skies, it's only one degree above freezing this afternoon and gusty--with wind chill it probably feels like the mid-20s right now. Yes, we live here, we're used to getting snow into April, but that doesn't mean we have to like it. The first words out of everyone's mouths these days concern the weather and how soon spring will really be here. I think we got spoiled last year, when for the first time in my memory we had a real spring, early and warm, coinciding with the calendar. Now that we've had a taste of it, we want that every year.
Despite today's raw edge, there are some signs of spring out there. Sheltered by a south-facing wall at the Camden Public Library, clusters of crocus bloom cheerily, always the first flowers I see each year. Around the neighborhood, milk jugs hang from maple trees, collecting sap; this is Maine Maple Sunday, after all. The Canadian robins have mostly moved northward and incoming migrant robins are beginning to feed on half-frozen lawns--a shift from their winter diet of fruits and berries. I spotted some red-winged blackbirds in Lincolnville along Frohock Brook. Many trilling juncos create music in the bare trees around our house. A tom turkey, surrounded by a heedless harem, was displaying in the back yard a few days ago. And Canada geese are beginning to return to the Megunticook River, even as winter ducks--goldeneyes, buffleheads--linger before heading up to Hudson Bay and points north. I've even noticed that some of my lilies are starting to poke tender green shoots through the veneer of dead leaves and road grit plastered across the front lawn (along with remnant snow banks that will probably linger till the next Ice Age). We're on the cusp of the season.
Goodbye and hello:
birds of winter, birds of spring
briefly overlap.
Despite today's raw edge, there are some signs of spring out there. Sheltered by a south-facing wall at the Camden Public Library, clusters of crocus bloom cheerily, always the first flowers I see each year. Around the neighborhood, milk jugs hang from maple trees, collecting sap; this is Maine Maple Sunday, after all. The Canadian robins have mostly moved northward and incoming migrant robins are beginning to feed on half-frozen lawns--a shift from their winter diet of fruits and berries. I spotted some red-winged blackbirds in Lincolnville along Frohock Brook. Many trilling juncos create music in the bare trees around our house. A tom turkey, surrounded by a heedless harem, was displaying in the back yard a few days ago. And Canada geese are beginning to return to the Megunticook River, even as winter ducks--goldeneyes, buffleheads--linger before heading up to Hudson Bay and points north. I've even noticed that some of my lilies are starting to poke tender green shoots through the veneer of dead leaves and road grit plastered across the front lawn (along with remnant snow banks that will probably linger till the next Ice Age). We're on the cusp of the season.
Goodbye and hello:
birds of winter, birds of spring
briefly overlap.
November 30: Buffleheads
Kristen Lindquist
Temperatures in the mid-40s on the last day of November as we step through the doorway into December. Rain here on the coast, while a friend in Vermont reports snowflakes. The mailman says tomorrow is supposed to be colder, which would be more appropriate for December. It's kind of hard to muster up the holiday spirit when green plants still flourish in my herb garden, and another day of drizzle clouds the horizon.
Five months from now, I'm probably going to be complaining that it's April and snowing. What do I expect? I live in Maine, in a weird little coastal area that seems to have its own weather patterns, in a time of global climate change.
Out on the river the buffleheads bob. These small black and white ducks breed in Canada, into the Arctic, and spend their winters in the relatively mild climate of Maine's coastal waters. Days like this must seem nearly tropical to them. When they first appear on the river each fall, it's one of those big reminders that we're headed into darker, colder times. But despite this association, I find the ducks themselves fun to watch. Agile divers, they slip underwater in a blink. It's a challenge to tally how many you're seeing in a little group, because several at a time dive down and then pop up in unexpected places. This mild spell means the river will remain unfrozen a little longer, so the ducks will hang out here later into the season than usual. When the river freezes, most of them head for the harbors and inland waters of the bay.
Downcast by rainfall,
yet buoyed by bobbing ducks.
November's last day.
Five months from now, I'm probably going to be complaining that it's April and snowing. What do I expect? I live in Maine, in a weird little coastal area that seems to have its own weather patterns, in a time of global climate change.
Out on the river the buffleheads bob. These small black and white ducks breed in Canada, into the Arctic, and spend their winters in the relatively mild climate of Maine's coastal waters. Days like this must seem nearly tropical to them. When they first appear on the river each fall, it's one of those big reminders that we're headed into darker, colder times. But despite this association, I find the ducks themselves fun to watch. Agile divers, they slip underwater in a blink. It's a challenge to tally how many you're seeing in a little group, because several at a time dive down and then pop up in unexpected places. This mild spell means the river will remain unfrozen a little longer, so the ducks will hang out here later into the season than usual. When the river freezes, most of them head for the harbors and inland waters of the bay.
Downcast by rainfall,
yet buoyed by bobbing ducks.
November's last day.
Photo from Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia