Category Archives: Snapshots

On learning that crossbills were still in the neighborhood

In Long Branch, we stand beside a maintenance shed
of the county park service,
with its four-wheel drive pickup trucks
its piles of road salt
and its border of Japanese black pines.
We spend frigid minutes
shivering in the wind,
the sun warming our faces
and the hint of a warbled song
drifting down in a shower of winged scales.

With tear-stained cheeks and icy fingers
we point past the chain-link fence
to a pile of dirty snow
and a small reddish bird with crossed bill,
quenching its thirst.

Beyond the small group of latecomers, I watch
the green expanse of the Atlantic,
the gray gull, small and perfect as a toy,
that glides across the horizon.
We head back to the warm car;
our pursuit complete,
the promise of cocoa
or an overpriced Windmill hotdog,
with chili and cheese.

– – – – – – – – – – –

I can’t say anything about the Red and White-Winged Crossbills here at the Jersey Shore that hasn’t already been said, other than that they’re still in their expected place at Seven President’s Park. For whatever reason, I waited until the coldest day ever to go see them. Neat birds… certainly worth the frigid temperatures.

Crossbills are the only family of birds that have crossed mandibles; what might look like a deformity is, in fact, an adaptation for the bird’s feeding habits. Crossbills insert their closed bill into the side of a pine cone and then open it, tearing out the scale and exposing the seed within, which is then scooped out by their odd-shaped tongue. Aside from the quiet trilling, it was the sound of pine cones being torn open that gave away the Crossbills’ presence and allowed us to spot them in the shadowed pine trees.

These birds have been present at the park for nearly a month and those of us that venture over to see them must present something of a curiosity to people in the neighborhood… enough that they drive by to ask what in the world we’re looking at.

: )

Crossbills wander widely in the winter months, as do birders looking for rarities.

The paranoid poet

Between the poet and the grimacing woman
on a beat-up blue bicycle,
lies a blurred wasteland.

She hasn’t always been this person.

Her squalid apartment
the letters scrawled in mad ink
that fizz by themselves in my in-basket

the dreamy smile
that makes her look, suddenly, young.

Walking the tightrope with her
ignoring the drop of the past,
avoiding looking down
to recognize the loss
and spinning, headfirst
into dizzying sadness.

The fear that I, too, might unravel
and spin off into nothing.

– – – – – – – – – – –

CM is a published poet, a librarian in a past life and a client of mine. She recently admitted that she suffers from paranoid schizophrenia and fears that she’ll be evicted, now that her landlord knows the truth about her. She insists that her mental illness doesn’t affect her ability to write poetry.


I worry about her a lot, visit her often and get almost weekly letters from her. Once or twice a year, she’ll send me a poem. I treasure those.


The man with the “golden voice” has me thinking of such things… I imagine a government social worker, somewhere, cheering him on, knowing this was coming, all along.

– – – – – – – – – – –

Photo from the Howard Finster collection at the High Museum in Atlanta. I was there recently to see the DalĂ­ exhibit and… wow!

I thought of you

There’s no better way to spend a day than to have your face kissed by the ocean’s gentle mist as you walk along the shore. Especially if your heart is full from a day packed with laughter and the presence of people who bring great joy. And especially if your heart is full from longing for family and friends whom you miss dearly, near and far.

I thought of you as I took this photo. I held you in my heart and imagined you were next to me. Yes, you. And you. And you, too.

You know who you are. And if you don’t, you should.

Lines across the sky

Bald Eagle over Forsythe NWR
He draws great lines across the sky; he sees the forests like a carpet beneath him; he sees the hills and valleys as folds and wrinkles in a many colored tapestry; he sees the river as a silver belt connecting remote horizons. We climb mountain peaks to get a glimpse of the spectacle that is hourly spread out beneath him. Dignity, elevation, repose, are his. I would have my thoughts take as wide a sweep. I would be as far removed from the petty cares and turmoils of this noisy and blustering world.

-John Burroughs, Far and Near

I had my life Bald Eagle at Forsythe (Brig) many years ago… I can hardly go there today without remembering that first glimpse of this magical bird.

Where was your first?

Ternabout

For the longest time, I just didn’t “get” terns. Nowadays I can’t seem to get enough of them!

For the beginner, I think they’re hard to separate, but the more time I get to spend with them, the clearer the contrasts become.

Distinguishing Royal (foreground) from Caspian (background) had felt so abstract until I saw them on the beach together at Sapelo… even out of focus, the Caspians are burly by comparison and there’s no mistaking the red of their bill for that of a Royal.

Note: I’m catching up with posting some old photos that I hadn’t yet blogged… these from the beach in October are warming my chilly bones.