Sky-juice got a thousand million sounds.
Depending on the quantity and speed and mood, it is ocean-waves washing on the roof-top, soft and waaaaaah.
Or it is hard-crashing, threatening to break down your shell.
Sometimes, it is fine bricks pelting zinc-sheets.
Other times, it is big stones banging.
Falling from gutters on the edge of the roof, it hit splickety-splakaty-splaka pon concrete.
From the high PVC gutter, into a plastic bucket already full o’ rain, it drum bonga-bonga-bonga.
On the small zinc roof of the wood-box sheltering the electricity meter, it beat tassa, tang-taka-taka-tang.
Small drops on a wire run together, group into a single drop and ting. Ting. Ting to the ground.
On them leaves, sky-juice make the sound of hands clapping out a rhythm.
Sit in the verandah this morning and listen to the thousand songs of life.