Last night the rain steadily drizzled, gathering on the eaves and falling to hit a plastic table outside, resounding like the tinkling of many small, hollow bones. Rain has always given me a special feeling, a lonely beautiful feeling when I listen to it in the night. It seems to portend of the natural, wild world that can still invade–even simply sonically–through the warm comfort of bedroomed rest. Out there, one can hear, is a cold, wet world. And I am drawn to it, even though I do not wish to get wet. I always fantasize of laying outside on a patch of grass, enveloped by a thin, clear bubble in which I could listen to the rain and watch it fall and be in the midst of it while still retaining that warm, dry outsideness.
What I am drawn to, I think, is simply the sound of it, the steady, staccato patterning of natural release. The pregnant clouds release their burden of gathered water into droplets that fall, called by gravity, back to the earth to try to find their way back together, to find their way back to their source, back to the rivers, back to the sea.
The sound is primal, but soothing. It can be steady, but you never know when it might suddenly stop. I never want it to stop, not when I am listening to it fall at night. But then it does.