Rainy Morning

The hawk was back this morning. Despite the rain pouring down, it perched in a pine tree and made its loud calls for several minutes as the gray light slowly grew. The other birds were not yet awake, so there were no protests of the hawk's intrusion. They waited for it to leave before they stirred.

This rain is a bit warmer than the last one, and the next may be warmer still. It's almost exactly right for the middle of March.

Look! Historic photographs of Catalina Island, from the Los Angeles County Public Library. Everybody's great grandparents looked happy.

Listening

This morning, when the hawk left, it was accompanied by another hawk. They were both back in the neighborhood this evening, flying about in the rain, perching at the tops of windblown pine trees, screeching at one another. Hah! I know what they're up to! They're going to make more little hawks! I found myself a bit envious of them carrying on their affair in this perfect, romantically moody weather. If hawks wrote literature, I'm sure the male would be going all Lord Byron about now, and the female would be working on a Bronte-esque novel. I'd call the hawks Catherine and Heathcliff, but those two ended badly. I wish the hawks well.

Speaking of Byron, He has a decent webstie, which is even part of a Lord Byron webring. The first site has posted this bit from Don Juan:

But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think;
'Tis strange, the shortest letter which man uses
Instead of speech, may form a lasting link
Of ages; to what straits old Time reduces
Frail man, when paper - even a rag like this - ,
Survives himself, his tomb, and all that's his.

I'd say the ink and paper still has a good chance of outlasting this digital manifestation of Byron's words, but the digital version is, for the time being, probably far more effectively viral. I'm struck by the convenience of being able to conjure up the ghost of Byron, or anyone else famous, with a few keystrokes and clicks of the mouse, but I do miss the atmosphere of the musty old libraries in which I once made such discoveries (with considerably more effort, though.) Probably just curmudgeonly nostalgia, perhaps brought on by the sound of rain which reminds me of how, when I used to wander the streets of Los Angeles, I would, on those occasions when caught by a sudden storm, prefer to take refuge in the nearest library or bookstore and spend the hours rooting through printed pages, sometimes stumbling on a bit of unexpected enlightenment. I suppose that in the future there will be many people who will experience a similar nostalgia about surfing the Internet via their laptops at Starbuck's. We all get trapped in our eras to some extent, even when engaged in activities that transcend them.

But I ramble.

This rain has the definite feel of spring about it. Though I had no sight of the sun today, I sensed its presence and its seasonally increasing power. There was brightness in the falling drops, and the air was far more mild than it was a few days ago. Tomorrow may bring thunderstorms. I am pleased. Probably not as pleased as those hawks, but pleased.