A small room inside a bay window. A single bed, a table and chair, and a sink. I could manage something larger, with more conveniences, but I could never match the view.

Sitting at my table, staring at this framed plastic light, I think of the rains, their music. Not just the notes that dot my asphalt roof, but the sharp splashes that begin with leaf-clogged eaves, and the longer, higher frequency swish from the tires of a passing car.

There are musicians who have left their designation and the instruments that carried them into music school for the larger palette that is Sound. Nothing new here, just another way to play it.