I tell you the rain needs to bring more symphonies and you point to the acacias which are filled with effusions. You say Scarlatti is in the garden, Bach is behind every stone. “Oh,” but they are old,” I say, “we need a storm.” In this way we are like first adopters of the Victrola, playing opera recordings under dry trees.
It’s a Brahms kind of morning, late August, humid, a heaviness down in the grass. Tenderness also. I hear Brahms consoling Clara Schumann. And the crickets, they’re Arnold Schoenberg, crying “Brahms the Progressive”.
Odd morning. Distant thunder. And my shirt soaked all the way through with the violin concerto in D Major, Op 77.