The welcome return of rain makes night a song, the gathered notes of distant seas now play the rooftop like a drum, and twitter in the downspout as brightly as flutes. A breeze draws a hum from the pine needles, rising and falling in pitch. All the while, the varied notes of yielding plum leaf, solid pavement, saturated lawn and gathered pool sustain an underlying fractal fugue. The force that sculpts air with branch and leaf, feathered wing and flower, now brings shapes to sound, and patterns my thoughts with messages as ancient as the washed stones of canyons and germ of seeds. Some tumbling grain of sand once deeply bound by mountain mass now abrades the bed of a rushing stream, or settles awhile in the plain, to root the rain-fed grass. All things are silence until silence is broken by song. Then, all things are song.