The mulberry leaves amplify the rain, each drop like the slap of a small drum, and the pine needles soften it, so that it becomes like the sound of tiny grains of sand falling on paper. I can hear rain strike the mulberry while I'm indoors, but must go out to hear it strike the pines. The mulberry leaves gather drops into larger drops which fall to the ground with loud, irregular splats. The pine needles fragment the rain and shed the small drops from their tips, letting it shower down with a steady rush that sounds like pages of a book being riffled with a thumb. I can't decide if I like one tree's rain song more than the other.
The clouds have settled as fog again, thick enough to conceal the dark shapes of all but the nearest trees. The unseen distance sends yet more sound, as the rain splatters the pavement and gathers to trickle and chuckle along the road's low border, and hidden pools are splashed by still more raindrops, adding their own bright notes. The whole night is dim shades, drifting vapor, and resounding water. Without needing to close my eyes, I can dissolve.