who the hell cares about books?

I was just at an educational program, with hawks and falcons and owls. I mean, real ones. And the two people in charge were flying the hawks right over our heads - I mean, right over our heads. The audience was all sitting down, and they were flying them at the height of their crooked arms, so that's right over our heads. At one point, the man was standing right behind me, I mean about a foot away, glove on and treat (a bit o' quail) in hand. I'd like to say that I didn't flinch and turn away when the hawk got a yard or two from me, aiming for a spot about a foot above and a foot behind my head, but I did. You would have too, I bet.
So I was just feet away from a hawk. It was right there. This was about 15 minutes ago, and that's nearly all I can think about. It was the most wonderful thing that's happened to me - well, for a little while. Not ever, but it's still very, very special.
I can't get "The Mercy Seat" by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds out of my head. So I'm still all shook up (so to speak) by this hawk experience, and "The Mercy Seat" is echoing around in my head, and I wish I could write about books but I can't. Just finishing re-reading Sloppy Firsts and Second Helpings by Megan McCafferty, and usually I'd have loads to say about these, two of my favorite and best-written teen novels, but I was just near a hawk!