I would love to be able to listen to the rain, just to the rain.
I can appreciate the landing’s interpretation of the rain. Drums of all kinds seem to be everywhere in splatter and kiss-offs. Rhythms abound in that regard. It is a surround of sound at its finest. But I would love to be able to hear just the rain itself. On occasion, I have heard a bird fly by. Well actually, that was the sound of its feather harmonicas and the twin wing kazoos set against the breath of its passage. Maybe without the air assistance, no sound of measure would occur. But I yearn for the sound of rain. Is it only the air turbulence caused by gravity’s call? I had otherwise imagined it to be some low pitch velvet purr in passing, with even subtler mutterings of viscosity’s cling, keeping each drop aerodynamic as it passes. I wanted so, the pleasure that that listening would offer, to even visit the clubhouse of clouds with the raindrops gathering. Imagining herds of drops, in mass, gathered before the weep of departure, like Lemmings off the cliff of the sky, descendants with liquid offerings upon arrival. I could have even wanted to hear the conception of rain itself, the evaporative coitus ascending towards creation. To listen into the intimacies of rain throughout it’s lifespan. Sound as this storyteller, and I, nestled in the lap of listening . . .