A tin roof: rains musical companion.
It’s pitted, rusty surface, masked by a wintry sheen.
The still of the night shakes with a round of warm-up pings.
Puffs, the color of despair, purge themselves of the millions
of raindrops that once made them bloat.
The thrashing of the wind, the rattling of storm shutters;
together it creates a polyphony no man could ever perform.
What was once shaken, now acclimates to the world outside.
What was once a disturbance, now soothes with its sound solace.
Like most things in life we become attracted to that which disrupts our being, moving us in a way we never thought possible.
Just as the rain drops that stir in the night, those things too fade away into a void of resonance so dark it stings to listen for any drip of residue.
Baring battle scars of the changing seasons; the slanted surface patiently awaits another night.
A night where the sky will open and give to it everything that once made it whole.
A night to once again compose a symphony no man could ever write.