1 July 2024 (island morning)
Kristen Lindquist
island morning
a foghorn moaning
in my bones
Book of Days
BOOK OF DAYS: A POET AND NATURALIST TRIES TO FIND POETRY IN EVERY DAY
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Filtering by Tag: foghorn
15 September 2023 (distant foghorn)
Kristen Lindquist
distant foghorn
a yellowthroat emerges
from the jewelweed
16 August 2022 (dawn)
Kristen Lindquist
island dawn
a passing ship’s foghorn
reaches my dream
September 26: Foghorn
Kristen Lindquist
Feel it in my heart--
foghorn's long, low bass note
sounding above the surf.
August 31: Boot Head Preserve
Kristen Lindquist
On the final day of our birding tour in Down East Maine, we visited Maine Coast Heritage Trust's Boot Head Preserve in Lubec, which features a bog, moss-carpeted forest, a dramatic coastline, ripe berries along the trails, and birds--including the elusive Boreal Chickadee.
Hiking Boot Head Trail--
pulled forward by unseen birds,
distant surf, foghorn.
Hiking Boot Head Trail--
pulled forward by unseen birds,
distant surf, foghorn.
October 6: Fog
Kristen Lindquist
A vague memory of hearing the foghorn in the night, and when I wake, the sky is white and Mount Battie's draped in mist.
Birch's yellow leaves glow
within the fog.
I wake slowly.
Birch's yellow leaves glow
within the fog.
I wake slowly.
June 14: Dawn
Kristen Lindquist
This morning I awoke at the ungodly hour of first light, sometime around 4 a.m., and for some reason was wide awake for almost two hours. The overcast sky was just whitening through the screen of leaves. I tried to let the soothing rush of the river lull me back to sleep, but I was just too alert.
While I lay there trying to will my mind to emptiness, I didn't hear any birds for a long time. No dawn chorus. The spring fling is over. I became aware of the avian silence because I realized that I could hear the distant call of the foghorn, such a poignant early sound. I don't think there's a foghorn in Camden, so sound was resonating well on this still morning.
Eventually a crow flew through the back yard, cawing briefly and softly. A bit later a titmouse whistled repeatedly for a few minutes, then stopped. Later still, as I was contemplating whether I should just get out of bed for the day, I heard the tremolo of a loon flying over the house on its way upriver. Finally, as I was drifting back to sleep at last, I heard a sharp thump on the roof and then the patter of little running feet--one of the many neighborhood squirrels was up and at 'em. Good morning! The last thought I remember was wondering if flying squirrels live in our neighborhood, gliding unseen among the trees in the half-light of these early hours.
Distant foghorn moans.
Even the crow sounds muted
on this grey morning.
While I lay there trying to will my mind to emptiness, I didn't hear any birds for a long time. No dawn chorus. The spring fling is over. I became aware of the avian silence because I realized that I could hear the distant call of the foghorn, such a poignant early sound. I don't think there's a foghorn in Camden, so sound was resonating well on this still morning.
Eventually a crow flew through the back yard, cawing briefly and softly. A bit later a titmouse whistled repeatedly for a few minutes, then stopped. Later still, as I was contemplating whether I should just get out of bed for the day, I heard the tremolo of a loon flying over the house on its way upriver. Finally, as I was drifting back to sleep at last, I heard a sharp thump on the roof and then the patter of little running feet--one of the many neighborhood squirrels was up and at 'em. Good morning! The last thought I remember was wondering if flying squirrels live in our neighborhood, gliding unseen among the trees in the half-light of these early hours.
Distant foghorn moans.
Even the crow sounds muted
on this grey morning.