Rain on Tin

It’s raining here tonight,

the heavens breaking their weeklong fast

with the earth,

their drops landing softly upon my tin roof.

I can hear each drop as it lands,

like pins dropping into a glass bowl

and later, like the sound of bacon

frying in a hot pan.

At some point, their identities blend into one,

like a drum roll over my head,

but if I listen carefully,

I can hear each individual drop

as it hits the roof.

And then, all is quiet

except for the drops hesitating

before they fall from the branches

of the tree outside my window,

shaken loose by the wind

with a sigh and a resigned letting go,

a lingering memory 

of the soft rain dancing on tin.

In the morning, the sky will be clear

and I will be able to see for miles.

—Paul Causey