Jonas could not sleep, because it was raining, and the rain was loud.
Pitter, patter, pitter, patter.
At first he did not like it. He pulled the covers over his head. But the rain kept on, and after a while, he began to listen.
He noticed that the rain was not making just one sound. It was making lots.
On the roof, the rain went tap, tap, tap, light and quick, like fingers on a small drum.
On the window, it went tic, tic, tic, a bit higher, like a triangle.
On the metal bucket in the garden, it went plink, plonk, plink, like a xylophone, with low notes and high notes all mixed together.
In the gutter, it went trickle, trickle, a long, smooth sound like a violin, running down the pipe and along the ground.
And in the puddles on the road, it went blip, blip, blop, like a thousand tiny bubbles.
"It's an orchestra," whispered Jonas.
He lay still and listened. The drums, the triangle, the xylophone, and the violin. Each one played its part. Sometimes they got louder, and sometimes softer, and sometimes they all seemed to breathe in together, and the music paused.
Then, far away, came a low, slow rumble. It was thunder, but only a very gentle sort. It was the big drum at the back of the orchestra, rolling softly, as if to say, "Time to slow down now."
The music did slow. The tap, tap, tap got farther apart. Tic. Tic. Plink. Trickle.
Jonas's eyes felt heavy. He thought about the bucket and the gutter and the puddles. He thought about the garden, drinking all this rain, and the flowers who would wake up greener tomorrow.
Tap, said the roof.
Tic, said the window.
Plink, said the bucket, one last time.
And Jonas was asleep, and the rain went on playing its song to the sleeping town until the morning.