Think of a most promising prelude to dreamtime.
A path in an english country garden.
A supernatural proem would cover it.

Rain at night. 

Sound emerges from darkness.
The fact of it's existence vulnerable to doubt.

Tell me I'm not alone in thinking
the song of midnight rain 
shines a light on the oneness of all life.
Yeilds a profound meditation on that truism.

Blown into a tree's crown
A crinkled paper fast-food box
scrawled with the odd sigil or symbol.
This is communication as I know it.
Know it everywhere I look.
Look at the bus stop's disfigured poster,
can't help but read the nifty slogan.

Come the midnight rain
do I submit to a truer authority?
Words I let go of here
succumb to poetic musicality.