Birds, blossoms, baseball and babies

Of the many myths about Los Angeles, one of the most widely trafficked is that we lack seasons. This notion, circulated by grumpy Midwesterners (yes, we know a few) who feel the need to justify why they continue to shovel snow and swat mosquitoes, surely is belied by our recent nights.

In like a lamb has ambled our spring. February’s rains accomplished what we asked: They boosted the snowpack and allowed us to turn off sprinklers and cut back on water at least for a month. They’re never enough, but this week brought a few extra sprinkles, and as winter ebbs, it leaves the earth rich and wet. Now comes the bloom. The sensuous waft of oranges, the tang of lemon, the rich, sweet overtone of jasmine, the soft touch of magnolia, the first hint of wisteria -- they are the scent of spring, blending in the night air. Even the rains we get this time of year are different -- warmer, softer, more shower than flood.

By morning, the parrots are jabbering in Pasadena; the finches skitter through Griffith Park, where sprigs of green return across slopes scorched in last fall’s fires. Along highways, red-tail hawks perch and wait for prey.

Birds and blossoms give Los Angeles the look and scent of spring, but it returns in sounds as well. On sunny weekend mornings, Highland Park now awakens to the ping of bat on ball as grown men in baseball uniforms test old legs on new grass. Mariachis congregate in Boyle Heights, where their historic haunts have been pressured by the extension of the subway but where fair weather lengthens their day; farmers’ markets hum in Hollywood and the Palisades and elsewhere in our far-flung metropolis. Mothers and fathers push babies along Larchmont; the coffeehouses of Silver Lake bustle with the quickening pulse of spring, even against the strange backdrop of the empty reservoir.

Along the beach, waves crash and rumble, suddenly beneath warm skies. At the water’s edge is the reassuring sight of women, men and children -- of all conceivable races and creeds -- walking the boardwalk, elbowing for position on the basketball courts and sharing the sand, cheek by jowl, at ease with one another.

This may not be a season as defined by our Eastern friends. It doesn’t mark the respite between hard cold and sticky heat; rather, it’s the gentle transition from rain to sun, from fireplaces to beach blankets. But it’s a season just the same, of scent and sound, no less a spring for the lack of mud.

And from this, our blossomed spring, comes quickly the next turn of our Southern California calendar: It’s jacaranda season, just around the corner.