The German means a little serenade, but is often rendered more literally, although less accurately, as a little night music. Last night, with rain and hail pattering, tapping and pounding on the metal roof, it was both. And wind sighed and soughed its deep bass viol notes, tying the entire nocturnal composition together.
There really is little in life more delightful than simply lying awake in the night, warm and snug, listening to the symphonic renderings of the natural world. Cold, sleet, deluge and ice are not sensed on the suffering skin but only as polyphony on the drowsy ear. Sweetly domiciled, the mind relaxes into the rush, shush and rattle of pure sound. There is a wildly seething greenness to April storms, accompanied by lashing branches, their leaf tongues singing wind words. Long vowels howl and wail in the flailing ululations of the trees.
Clouds collide their black bellies; thunder rumbles. All is clatter, clack, rattle and hiss; a stormy, jumbled poetry that creaks and cries, bears down, insists, flattens, a great palm clapping attention, then passes on. The dreamy mind pictures stinging pellets of hail; black, roiling, rolling acres and miles; elevations and altitudes; plains and hills; mountains’ vast timbered tracts leaning windward, snow slanting in their secret, shadow-danced depths.
Streaming stones in kernaled gulleys dance the lashing blue and ash song along through the grumbling, inky night. The heart sinks into the wet cold of anointing. Eyes drift closed beneath this passionate swirl of icy creation; this love; this indigo instant; this storm.
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