A Symphony in Copper

The Sweet Song of the Rain

I awoke this morning to the sweet sound of the copper rain gutters singing. We added them last year, mostly for their aesthetics. At first rosy pink and bright as a new penny, they are now darkening to a lustrous, rich hue, swirled with what almost looks like oil on a pond — peacock blue and fuscia — dotted here and there at the rivets with that tell-tale turquoise that comes with age. What I had not expected though, was the delight of their audible symphony when the heavens drop their tears from the sky

Because they are concave, at first you hear the individual droplets of rain hitting the surface and bouncing, joyfully, against the sloping walls. Then, the drops join with the others in a rising crescendo that ripples along the length of the house before tumbling down the drain and into the garden, which receives the liquid melody with open arms.

The song varies from the tenuousness of a first kiss to the flourish of a full-fledged love. It rises and falls like the undulations of passion leading to the ultimate ecstasy, and then softens to a warm afterglow, which lingers in your ears.

Or, perhaps it resembles the clinking of ice chips in a glass.

Sometimes, if I close my eyes, I can hear the trilling of high piano keys, like in Handel’s Water. The notes cascade down the piano in a headlong rush, as if surging towards the edge of a cliff before diving over and into a froth of liquid lace, joining millions of other droplets or notes in a tumultuous free-fall that plunges headlong into a Kauian blue pool nestled in the lava rock below.

At times, it is reminiscent of crickets, rubbing their legs to wings like tiny violinists all tuning their instruments at once.

Or when the drizzle is steady, I can hear a gurgling brook meandering over mossy stones, bursting momentarily into a glade of light, then moldering back into the mottled shadows of the forest floor.

When the bursts are erratic, the song is like being immersed in the chatter of the opera house — many voices all around, none of them rising above the others, unless you narrow in on a single conversation.

I have always been attuned to the rain, appreciating its rhythms and the hug of its muggy cloak. And, the sight of its wispy trails across the canyon, or its ferocity as it etches the surface of the pool into pebbled marble, or into pounded tin, reflecting the ceiling of the silver sky, always makes my heart beat a little faster.

But, the addition of the copper gutters has almost added another sense to what I can perceive, like birds seeing more colors than we do, or cats sniffing the scent of their predecessors in the house when you pull out the twenty-year old Christmas tree skirt. I am suddenly aware of a new rhythm or song, a delicate hum beneath the breath of the breeze, or the sigh of Mother Nature as she lets down her milk to nourish the world.

The rain has paused now. But, I can see the clouds puffing their chests with moisture, like the opera singer doing her vocal exercises before the show.

And soon, very soon, a new melody will arise, drifting from a steady trickle which tickles the gutters, to a staccato beat which patters against their walls, to a lingering love song, which slides along their surfaces before emptying to the fertile earth below.

To hear “A Symphony in Copper,”please listen to my audio-recording:

If you enjoyed this piece, you might also like:

Erika Burkhalter is a yogi, neurophilosopher, cat-mom, photographer, and lover of travel and nature, spreading her love and amazement for Mother Earth’s glories, one photo, poem or story at a time. (MS Neuropsychology, MA Yoga Studies). Erika is also an editor for Dharma Talk.

Story and photos ©Erika Burkhalter. All rights reserved.