There is a persistant plip plop
scritch scratch scratch scritch
staccato beats like the tapping
of alien fingers on the window.
I pause and shiver shoulders tense
It must be the amplified sound of rain
and leaves yet there is a discordance
in the air like the distant call of the tocsin.
I shrug and turn on Rusalka and sit feet up,
as the liquid notes of the music envelop me
and I visualise the prince swimming in the lake
-the phone rings.