It must have broken through a mist of spring rain when it came, the dawn, the first light of day. It would have come into a watery sky too, one busy with clouds, but full of blossoming spring and still clean, free of jet planes. The birds will have seen it coming, long before. In fine voice they sing from the mid-distance like in a dream, reflected off so many back garden walls. None in this back garden though, with its wide hanging tarpaulin, tumbled stacks of empty flowerpots, upturned planters, and old paint tins. The timpani, for when the rain drops fall.

They know what they're doing, the birds. They watch the rain clouds from their sheltered perches and wait for them to pass. They wait for the water to soak into the grass, and bring up the worms. They bide their time.

As they wait, the city hums, quietly. It isn't quite ready yet. The rain showers down, in fine mists and spray. It falls between the birdsong onto the tarpaulin, onto the upturned pots, the countless leaves and blades of grass. And as it lands, it lights up the garden, in sound. Plays upon the upturned pots and tins, taps like a million fingertips on the tarpaulin, gathers, then with a lifting wind streams off onto the yard floor in splatters. This is how a little garden sounds at dawn, when the rain falls. When there's no one around to hear it.

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