It’s a quiet morning at the river. High overhead, a flock of birds flies by. The caw of crows drifts in from far off in the distance, and from a bit closer, I hear the faint rise and fall of a bird song I can’t identify.
Most mornings, the river ice groans and creaks with the tidal flow. There are intermittent cascades of tinkling shards as it shifts, breaks, and falls. Occasionally, it emits a loud startling boom. Today all is quiet. Perhaps it’s slack tide.
I wander along the edges of the waterfront park, watching the subtle changes in light on the horizon. There’s no real path for me to follow, just the contours where the land meets the river.
I know to look down river to the tall pine, a favorite perch for local bald eagles. This morning two of them are there, silhouetted against the lightening sky. Another one flies in, then disappears into the nearby trees. I watch them for a long while. Sometimes they fly off as dawn breaks. Today, they seem content to remain where they are.
Turning, I scan the point at the turn in the river. Earlier this winter I saw a fox there. I listened to its piercing cry. Today, it doesn’t appear. I look back along the banks where at other times I’ve seen beaver and mink. A lone squirrel scampers along for a bit, then darts up a tree and out of sight. Nothing else stirs.
As I do most days, eventually I walk through the parking lot, onto the road, and then out onto the bridge. Beneath me, in the limited open water, the common mergansers swim, their colors muted in the low light. Some days they power through the water, diving over and over, amusing me with their energetic fishing. Today, they placidly glide through the icy water.
I take only a few pictures. Walk a little bit more. Look. Listen.
Everything feels slower down at the river today. There’s a peace and an intimacy to the hush.
as dawn tiptoes in
the river welcomes me
morning meditation
Linda Baie is hosting the Poetry Friday Roundup this week at her blog,
I’m participating in Laura Shovan’s daily poetry challenge this month. Each day someone posts a prompt around the theme “Water.” Yesterday’s prompt was for a How-to poem that included a reference to water. I considered a few ideas and one by one, rejected them. Then my mind, in that random way it has, flew back to one of my favorite memories–the first time my husband and I bathed our son, Connor.
I’m fascinated by great blue herons and have spent hours watching them. Typically they leave Maine for warmer climates by November or so. This year, a local heron appears to be intending to winter over. While I delight when I see it, I’m also quite concerned about its chances of survival.
When I pulled into the parking lot at school early last Wednesday, I looked up to see the slimmest crescent of moon in the midst of corrugated clouds. 
I could write about the text I got that morning at school. About the frantic follow-up phone call. About throwing things in my bags, tapping someone to cover my class, and racing out the door.
I’m still not sure which woke me first–Kurt whispering intensely, “Molly, do you hear them?” or the sounds themselves. Stumbling up through layers of sleep, I half sat to listen. Kurt leaned closer to the window. The air around us seemed to vibrate with yips and howls. I recognized the sound immediately: Coyotes. But, I’d rarely heard them so loud before. They must have been close. Really close.
Nix the comfort zone 