Common Grackle: Kennebunk, Maine, USA, March 2026 — We have more Common Grackles passing through southern Maine this year (I sincerely hope they are passing through) than I have ever seen before. Flocks of many hundreds at a time. We have had 50 or more at the same time sitting in the top of two trees in the neighbor’s yard. If you know grackles, you know what that sounds like. I count it as a blessing that they either do not like or have not discovered our mealworm supply. This one was in the small wetland behind the houses along our street, congregating with the male Red-winged Blackbirds. They were not singing harmony—more counterpoint—but it was an interesting sound bath, if not a symphony. In this particular light, you see the iridescence in the body feathers quite clearly while the head remains dark. That too is a counterpoint. And that bright yellow eye is as amazing as ever. Sony a6700. Sigma 16-300 at about 800mm equivalent field of view crop. Program with bird and wildlife modifications. Processed in Photomator.

Skunk Cabbage: Kennebunk, Maine, USA, March 2026 — Back in December, after our first snowfall, I was surprised to find Skunk Cabbage already up and poking through the thin snow cover in the little forest across the street from us along the tiny stream. Then came the heavy snows and intense cold of our winter this year, and I lost track of it. Going back to the forest here in late March, I find that there seem to be fewer Skunk Cabbage sprouts, and if the ones left are survivors, they have not grown a bit since I saw them last. Of course, it is possible that none of the early December crop survived and that what I am seeing now is a whole new crop. Having looked it up, I discover that Skunk Cabbage, unlike almost all plants, is “warm-blooded”. The Skunk Cabbage produces its own heat and has a body temperature that it maintains despite its surroundings. Getting buried in snow, it creates a melt zone around itself that acts as insulation in the same way as an igloo does, and it spends its winter safe in its own igloo, burning starch to stay warm. Isn’t that just too wonderful for words? I have always had a strange affinity for Skunk Cabbage, and now I know why. As one warm-bodied creature to another, I can identify. That and the amazing shapes and the intense color patterns. What is there not to like? (I guess I can forgive the smell. Some days I don’t smell so good myself.) Sony a6700. Sigma 16-300 at about 600mm equivalent field of view crop. Aperture program with macro modifications. Processed in Photomator.

Red-winged Blackbird: Kennebunk, Maine, USA, March 2026 — on a dull day in late March, I took a walk down to the wetlands behind the first row of houses along my street and found it full of Red-winged Blackbirds. All males, but already doing a lot of competitive singing. I broke my own rule against using recordings (since, I justified, they are not even establishing territories yet) and played a blackbird song to get a few to pop up where I could see them. I thought maybe we could get a conversation going, but honestly, they know the difference—the recording is only, after all, the part of the song I can hear. Their song, the one they hear, has a lot of higher harmonics where the blackbird life lives in it, that I just do not hear and that no instrument can record or play back. We can appreciate Blackbirds, but only at a lower harmonic. This is as things are and should be. Sony a6700. Sigma 16-300 at about 800mm equivalent field of view crop. Program with bird and wildlife modifications. Processed in Photomator and assembled in FrameMagic.

Rachel Carson NWR, Wells, Maine, March 2026 — Panoramas are hard to display and hard to view. Our focused zone of attention is only between 30 and 60 degrees. The rest we call peripheral vision. We see it, but we only pay enough attention to it to keep us from waking into walls or off cliffs or to avoid hanging branches and flying birds and debris. So when a panorama forces us to look at even a 100-degree field of view, it makes us just a bit uncomfortable. (Of course, our digital displays are not panorama-friendly either, which is why this one is in a 16×9 box. 🙂 I still like them, mostly for the exercise. It is good to expand our vision on occasion. It might make us more aware of walls and cliffs and flying things, but it might also help us to expand our zone of focused attention beyond the norm. That would be a good thing, I think. Who wants to live a narrow life? This is 5 overlaying frames at 24mm equivalent field of view, taken with the Sony a6700 and Sigma 16-300 contemporary, Landscape scene mode, processed in Photomator and stitched together in BimoStitch.

Hobble Bush: Rachel Carson National Wildlife Refuge, Wells, Maine, USA, March 2026 — Hobblebush is one of the earliest budding plants in our Southern Maine forests. In the warm spell we had in December, the buds were already forming, though they retreated during the cold snowy season we have had since. Hobblebush is a viburnum and goes by several common names: my favorite is “moosewood”. The hobble might come from “witch hobble” and the belief that the plant was somehow effective against witches, or used by witches to hobble others? That bud will burst soon into a complex flower head with tiny white flowers surrounded by large white petals. As it is one of the first to bud, it is by far one of the first to flower. The leaves will open into saucer sized light green hearts. I enjoy it in all its seasons. It is not subtle (except for the tiny flowers at the center) but it is bold and brave and that counts for something! Sony a6700. Sigma 16-300 at 75mm equivalent field of view. Aperture with macro modifications. Processed in Photomator.

Rachel Carson NWR, Wells, Maine, USA, March 2026 — what we have here is a community. Lichen poking up through a bed of moss. And, of course, lichen is a community all in itself. A cooperation between a fungus (the grey part) and an alga (the pale green part). The fungus provides the durability and longevity, and the green alga provides the energy and nutrients. By cooperating, they become more than either is alone. And, while some would say the moss and lichen are competing for the same resources, I prefer to think both are benefiting from their community. If I were a betting man, I would lay money that the lichen and moss are working together to soften the rotting wood, each in its own way, to make nutrients more available to them both. Makes sense, does it not? More sense than the idea that they are competing. After all, lichen can grow on bare rock, and there are lots of dead trees in the forest. Why be together if both do not benefit? And that is the nature of community, is it not? This Sabbath day, I can only wish you the joy of knowing that you are part of the one great community of mankind, of life on this planet, of life in this universe. Sony a6700. Sigma 16-300 at 161mm equivalent field of view. Aperture program with macro modifications. Processed in Photomator.

Mixed mosses: Rachel Carson NWR, Wells, Maine, USA, March 2026 — I am going to invite you to look closely again today. Partly because these late March days there is not much else, besides our feeder birds, to look at here in Southern Maine. The mosses, however, are fresh and green now that the snow cover is gone—vibrant with life. As it happens, one of my daughters is just back from a trip to the Olympic Rainforest around Seattle and rediscovered moss. There might not be better moss anywhere in the USA than in the Olympic Rainforest. So this is partly for her. For me, moss is all about texture and form and what light does with it. (But then I just described what photography is about to me, if I add in framing.) I find joy in the intricate textures and the feathery forms. (Same as birds really, but moss poses for you, and you can take your time with it.) I have a special little tripod that fits in my pocket and is short enough to shoot almost at ground level and give me the support I need for longer exposures and greater depth of field. Combined with a lens that focuses close in, it allows me to get up close and personal with the moss. Where I find my joy. Hopefully, a few of you will too. I am pretty sure my daughter will. Sony a6700. Sigma 16-300 at 83mm equivalent field of view. Aperture program with macro modifications (f22 for greater depth of field, which meant 1/25 of a second, hence the tripod 🙂 Processed in Photomator.

American Robin: Kennebunk, Maine, USA, March 2026 — Birds remind us (or should remind us) that everything that matters in life is a verb. A robin is not “a robin”; it is a living pattern of robinness, robining in front of our eyes. How could that not fascinate us, living patterns of humanness, as we human through our days? Our shared days: Robining and Humaning, side by side? I know that watching a Robin Robining makes my day of Humaning that much lighter. How about you? (And if that does not get you thinking, I do not know what will?) Sony a6700. Sigma 16-300 with about a 600mm equivalent field of view crop. Program with bird and wildlife modifications. Processed in Photomator and assembled in FrameMagic.

Rusty Blackbird: Kennebunk, Maine, USA, March 2026 — This is not a great photo. Too far. Too many branches. But it is, I am pretty sure, the very first Rusty Blackbird I have seen in Maine. You have to be looking at the right time, just about now, as they move from their winter grounds to the south of us, to their breeding grounds to the north of us. They don’t actually live here. They just pass through. However the species is in deep decline. There are not a lot of them left. There are a lot of reasons. Primarily the draining and cutting of the wetland forests in the southeast where they winter and the climate change induced drying of the wetland forest where they breed. Also mercury poisoning and increasing acid in rain. And the change in the seasonal cycle has an impact on their food sources. All those factors added together paint a bleak picture for the Rusty Blackbird (and, of course, for us!). As it happens the Universe is a self healing system, and despite recent setbacks, I have confidence that we will come to our senses in time. Or at least I still have hope. Sony a6700. Sigma 16-300 cropped to about 2000mm equivalent field of view. Program with bird and wildlife modifications. Processed in Photomator.

Carolina Wren: Kennebunk, Maine, USA, March 2026 — One wren deserves another, don’t you think? Maybe even two. Lots of personality—or rather wrenality. No mistaking a wren for anything else. Oh, you might think a Brown Creeper is a wren, but you would not think a wren is a brown creeper. I sometimes have to pay attention when I see a Red-breasted Nuthatch, which I can mistake, at a glance, for a wren, but I never mistake a wren for a nuthatch. Funny how that is. Actually, wrens are more closely related to Mockingbirds and Thrashers and Gnatcatchers than to Brown Creepers and Nuthatches (so Gemini tells me). And that is funny. Just wrening around here. 🙂 Sony a6700. Sigma 16-300 at approximately 800-900mm equivalent field of view. Program with bird and wildlife modifications. Processed in Photomator.