The first notes fall soft, tentative
like a pianist testing the keys of twilight
whispers of hope peeking out beneath the heavy blanket of silence
their rhythms weaving a hymn for the waiting Earth, hushed and
expectant
a symphony awakens on the glass
each drop, its own rhythm, its own voice
the window becomes a canvas for sound
where the rain paints stories in translucent
strokes the canvas a mass of browns, purples, greens, and blues
the drops begin
to slow, blanketed by silence
each drop creates its own color
each peeking out, trying to be seen