The 9th of May in the mountains

The sound of rain on the roof has no pattern that the mind can follow but surely one is there.  A series of droplets fallen from a similar height hitting, splashing, and running down the definite shapes of trees, power-lines and houses, all shifted by the same wind.  Simply because it is so infinitely complex as to defy our understanding, we call it random.  But there is a music there even if it expresses nothing more complicated than the free and beautiful movement of the earth under its clouds and around its sun.  And down here the mind can look out the window as it listens for these repetitions and it can maybe only try to follow the threads out into the wet forest evening, up through the myriad dripping needles, and on into the grey mist from where this wonder has come.