All Wet

This Week in Death. I see page after page of dead people; the famous, the infamous, the non-famous who have through misfortune been caught in the glare of fame at the last moment. (Oh, how perverse to escape fame for a lifetime only to have your late mug slapped onto a website because of something newsworthy in the way you became a cadaver!) It's like a Whitman Sampler of mortality, with portraits and thumbnail biographies. The archives go back through 2002. I even saw a couple of dead horses, and a lobster. There ought to be a picture of Privacy there, it having been murdered by the Internet. And still, I look.


The rain strengthened last night, giving me something to listen to. This morning the clouds have settled onto the land, swirling about the pines and shrouding the distance. The rain has stopped for the moment, and the pavements are still and glassy. They have nothing to reflect but the sodden trees.

More, more, more!

Some people might not be impressed by four inches, but when you've gone without for a long time, you're grateful for whatever you can get. Right now I'd say we're all pretty happy around here about having gotten four inches. It's a lead pipe cinch we'll be getting at least a bit more tonight, too. And then there's a good possibility that we'll be getting another four inches or so sometime next week, and maybe we'll keep getting it, more and more, all through February. I for one am delighted at the prospect of getting wet again and again. Ah, delicious rain.

The birds are enjoying it too. As it's not been cold rain, and seldom falls in more than a gentle drizzle, the acorn woodpeckers aren't even bothering to hide themselves from it by perching on the leeward side of the telephone pole. They fly and chuckle and occasionally flutter their wings to release brief showers of bright droplets which have accumulated on their feathers. The jays and crows screech happily too. I've also been hearing a number of calls I don't recognize. I suspect that some migratory birds stopped short of their usual destinations this year, due to the mildness of the season.

The cat hasn't even complained about the rain yet. It's probably the fact that it's fairly close to balmy out, and the fact that there are periodic dry spells, that has prevented the storm from outraging her feline sensibilities. She goes out and sits on the porch for an hour or so at a time, entirely undistressed. In fact the only unpleasantness the storm has brought thus far is the infestation of ants. Once again, the kitchen stinks of formic acid from all the little crushed bodies that result from my outrage-induced slaughter. I wish I could find the place they get in through so I could just seal it up. But at least we don't get roaches here.