Ah, quiet. Back to Hawaii for the holidays. We woke up around six-thirty in the morning as a grey lugubrious cloud rolled in overhead, contemplating rain.
In the kitchen I heard a faint splashing sound coming from near the sink: a gecko had fallen into yesterday’s leftovers in the coffee pot.
|I doubt he was taking a bath; he was probably thirsty. (That’s my theory, at least. I found one in my cranapple juice once when we came home from the grocery store and assumed he was there for the same reason. It’s why I keep the lid up on the toilet when we leave: if any geckos are locked in the house, I want to ensure they have some water to drink.)|
The baby hawk who first went airborn in September squeals in the neighbors’ yard. She’s up early hunting, and one can only assume she’s shrieking messages back to the aerie.
The coqui that doesn’t know he’s supposed to be silent when the morning comes still sings in search of a mate.
Arvin does his strength and stretching exercises in the dim yellow light in the living room.
A delicate rain shower whisps across the coast, then sweeps across the jungle below and passes gently through the yard. It is followed by another, arrival time indeterminate, the distance between them broken by sunspots on the water’s surface.