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Dripping

The faucet dripped, the rhythm made me fall deeper into...

What was this?

My eyes were half closed as I listened to the soft symphony
of rain hitting the glass door to the back yard.
The dependable drip of the faucet played a counterpoint
to the main melody of the musical rain.

The tin cans were the sopranos,
the flutes and piccolos.
The sweeping and light disturbing wind on the grass

acting as a constant hissing, the background of a snare.

The flowing of the water down eroded crevices in the dark clay-like mud
played as the french horns, full in sound.
The basses, the tubas, the bass clarinet and sax, mixed together,
slightly off tune, separated from the rest.

The breath to play their notes taken in the even time
between the dripping of the faucet.
The broken glass outside made a fluttering,
beautiful noise as it played the part of the clarinets.

And the director?
My sleep weighted eyes moved back and forth
between the colourful sounds that fought to find time with each other.
The was no director of this glorious symphony.

It was nature herself that played
each and every instrument with skill,and millennia of practice.
I hoped the rain and constant patter against the steel sink would never end,
but the life of any beauty must eventually end.

Sleep overtook my senses,
and the rain lulled the world around me into a peaceful darkness.

Learn more about this author, Chey.
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