7 November 2024 (a woodpecker's)
Kristen Lindquist
a woodpecker’s jarring laugh intermittent stream
Book of Days
BOOK OF DAYS: A POET AND NATURALIST TRIES TO FIND POETRY IN EVERY DAY
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Filtering by Tag: pileated woodpecker
January 10: Woodpecker tree
Kristen Lindquist
At Beech Hill Preserve today came upon a large dead tree, still standing, which has been vigorously attended to by a Pileated Woodpecker this winter. The bark-less trunk is pitted with extensive excavation work, and piles of fresh wood chips surround its snowy base.
Every day the woodpecker
returns for more.
I understand that hunger.
Every day the woodpecker
returns for more.
I understand that hunger.
February 23: River mist
Kristen Lindquist
All morning a thick mist rose into the air off the iced-in river, a hazy, shifting wall of fog between us and the opposite shore. The air above the river is warmer than the ice and laden with moisture. Spring-like air. Hence, the mist. From the pines beyond, a pileated woodpecker has been calling sporadically, loudly. His odd laughter, combined with the dense mist, have lent an eerie quality to the river as observed from the climate-controlled comfort of my office. Now, a bank of clouds rolls away eastward and the river ice, exposed at last to sunlight, shines.
Still-frozen river
giving up winter's ghost--
February mist.
Still-frozen river
giving up winter's ghost--
February mist.
October 18: Pines
Kristen Lindquist
This afternoon I walked with a friend along the Little River Community Hiking Trail that begins just off Route One at the Belfast Water District. We set out on a brief hike on this surprisingly mild day, following the trail along the edge of the Little River reservoir up to where it narrows into the river itself. Near the beginning of the trail, you get an unusual perspective on the reservoir behind the dam seeming to pour off into space, with a glimpse of its outlet into the cove beyond. It looks sort of like an infinity pool at the ocean's edge, only set among fall trees rather than fancy landscaping. (From the other side, from Route One, this dam and waterfall with adjacent red buildings are very picturesque.)
The trail hugs the water's edge, so as we walked, we flushed from the water a few flocks of mallards. In certain seasons, I can imagine the mostly-forested reservoir attracting lots of ducks. Red squirrels scolded us periodically. We heard some white-throated sparrows calling in the underbrush and were stopped in our tracks by the cackling call of a pileated woodpecker, which shortly thereafter flew in front of us across the trail deeper into the woods.
But what I enjoyed most about the trail was the pine trees. The Water District property hosts quite a few really old pines, the kind with trunks too big to get your arms around, rising so straight and tall you can almost imagine them as the King's Pines of 400 years ago--the ones they saved for masts for the royal navy. These dramatic trees were true presences in the forest, lordly beings in their own right. And they had scattered their yellow needles in a carpet along the trail, cushioning each step so that we couldn't help but walk in a hush from tree to tree.
We pass quietly
noble old pines, but squirrel
scolds, gives us away.
The trail hugs the water's edge, so as we walked, we flushed from the water a few flocks of mallards. In certain seasons, I can imagine the mostly-forested reservoir attracting lots of ducks. Red squirrels scolded us periodically. We heard some white-throated sparrows calling in the underbrush and were stopped in our tracks by the cackling call of a pileated woodpecker, which shortly thereafter flew in front of us across the trail deeper into the woods.
But what I enjoyed most about the trail was the pine trees. The Water District property hosts quite a few really old pines, the kind with trunks too big to get your arms around, rising so straight and tall you can almost imagine them as the King's Pines of 400 years ago--the ones they saved for masts for the royal navy. These dramatic trees were true presences in the forest, lordly beings in their own right. And they had scattered their yellow needles in a carpet along the trail, cushioning each step so that we couldn't help but walk in a hush from tree to tree.
We pass quietly
noble old pines, but squirrel
scolds, gives us away.
September 18: Wrapping it up
Kristen Lindquist
Tomorrow I leave for a two weeks vacation on Monhegan Island. When I return, it will be October. So this weekend I've been trying to wrap up all that stuff I need to do before I leave, which includes all my end-of-summer chores around the house and yard. The only thing written down on my to-do list was to pack, but here it is, early Sunday afternoon, and I've been bustling around all weekend taking care of things in a very satisfying fashion. Now, the house is vacuumed, plants watered, bird feeders filled, essential groceries my husband might need replaced, lawn mowed, gardens weeded (sort of), leaves raked, bushes pruned and mulched, gravel spread, work email set up with the "on vacation" reply, and laundry and dishes done.
But before I undertake the final, massive task of packing for two weeks on an island where the weather could range from just short of snow to sub-tropical, I'm taking a mindful moment on my freshly repaired and painted back porch to soak up this beautiful afternoon. I'm stepping into vacation mode just a few hours early.
The river is low right now so the water is just a quiet hush in the background, but a pileated woodpecker has been loudly calling for a while now and a pair of crows is yelling back and forth. Upriver, through the green wall of surrounding trees, I can see one red tree that's turned early. A small flock of waxwings flies over, which always brings a smile to my face. I love waxwings. A squirrel explores the edge of the lawn, while a chipmunk chips repeatedly just below, causing the squirrel to climb a tree, wave its tail like a furious little flag, and chatter back. In the distance, a lawn mower buzzes, white noise. My eyes keep closing involuntarily. Is there any calm felt so deeply as that derived from having accomplished what one set out to do, so that one can now simply rest?
How many moments
can we really say we feel
completely at peace?
PS: I may or may not post while I'm away for the next two weeks; my inn has sporadic wi fi, and I will be, after all, on vacation, focused on hanging out with friends and looking for birds... and maintaining this relaxed feeling!
But before I undertake the final, massive task of packing for two weeks on an island where the weather could range from just short of snow to sub-tropical, I'm taking a mindful moment on my freshly repaired and painted back porch to soak up this beautiful afternoon. I'm stepping into vacation mode just a few hours early.
The river is low right now so the water is just a quiet hush in the background, but a pileated woodpecker has been loudly calling for a while now and a pair of crows is yelling back and forth. Upriver, through the green wall of surrounding trees, I can see one red tree that's turned early. A small flock of waxwings flies over, which always brings a smile to my face. I love waxwings. A squirrel explores the edge of the lawn, while a chipmunk chips repeatedly just below, causing the squirrel to climb a tree, wave its tail like a furious little flag, and chatter back. In the distance, a lawn mower buzzes, white noise. My eyes keep closing involuntarily. Is there any calm felt so deeply as that derived from having accomplished what one set out to do, so that one can now simply rest?
How many moments
can we really say we feel
completely at peace?
PS: I may or may not post while I'm away for the next two weeks; my inn has sporadic wi fi, and I will be, after all, on vacation, focused on hanging out with friends and looking for birds... and maintaining this relaxed feeling!