Percussion Section

With eyes at rest in the way of dreams, I hear the quenching rain. The percussion of the water varies according to the surface it wets. There are the drums that are the windows, the cymbals that are the concrete floor, and the soft, soft maracas that are the music of the grass. The triangles are the puddles, their high notes picking up the mood while singing of the joy of memories lost and found. I like the sound of falling rain. I find solace in its embrace. I hear it whispering nostalgic stories of memories displaced.