There’s lots of it, this being winter on the Big Island.
The rain in Puna comes in many forms:
- Light moving rain – koʻiawe
- Fine windblown rain – lelehuna
- Chilly rain – ua ʻawa
- Rain spray – ehu
- Showery rain – ua nāulu
- Rain with large drops – ua hekili
- Slanting rain – ua hikiki’i
and many more …
The evening we arrived we had drenching downward sheets that suppressed all movement of air. The rain fell at a relentless pace all that night. It was so loud in the trees and on the roof that even the sounds of the coqui brigades in the jungle were drowned out.
We love the sound of the rain at night here at the house. Sitting up on this shelf of land at the edge of the jungle sometimes makes you feel exposed. But when the rain comes, especially if you’re in bed, it wraps the house and yard in a blanket of protection.
Rain is a welcome home.
Rain is nourishment and life and refreshment. Rain is water. It cleanses, it nurtures, and in the case of soil and housepaint it can erode. It is the antithesis of fire, which burns down the road in Pele’s belly, although rain could never extinguish that particular fire. Ultimately water is life. It is for this reason that scientists longingly search the universe for it.
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.)
that's some kind of camouflage
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.
rain clouds over hawaii