This is no loud and cataclysmic rain, diagonal deluge or bombs of sharp and hissing drops to starburst on the pane,
but the plucking of a tall, ethereal harp among the cottonwoods and sycamores; a dimpling of the puddles in the grass, a drowsiness that grows behind closed doors, wishing this kind of peace need never pass. Nothing at all disturbs the leisurely and vertical descent of lazy showers;
they strum and tap and tick away the hours - we recognize the simple melody that drowns our yielding senses in the deep
night-long mysterious sea of singing sleep.