Out hiking in the woods, I am caught in a long slow summer rain. I find myself shelter under a convenient set of trees overlooking the river, and sit to wait it out. A few years ago I read a book about the experiences of the blind, and was struck by one man's description of how, when it rained, he could suddenly see the shape of space and the location of objects, because the falling of the rain sent millions of little echoes of different kinds off of everything. It took him awhile to tune into the different echo sounds, but now whenever it rained, he could "see" in all directions. Since then, whenever it rains, I always close my eyes and try to learn the different rain sounds -- I am not very good at it, but I have begun to hear the difference between near rain, far rain, rain off leaves, rain off objects, and even just the trying can make the time pass beautifully. I cannot quite hear the sculpting of space in sound yet.

Music, I suddenly think, is like the rain. As the notes of a symphony or song fall, they shape spaces and worlds of experience in our listening. If you like, the notes and chords echo off the colours and burdens of our lives, and we are immediately surrounded by that sounding space: the opening of a Delta Blues, hot and dazzling with resonant sunshine; the high mountain air of a Beethoven trio; the desert sky crisscrossed with contrails in Joni Mitchell's Amelia. The music shimmers, cascades, showers its own intimately created rain space, into which we are briefly plunged.

The rain stops, its aftermath dripping sweetly everywhere. I leave the forest and enter the city again, wandering along the newly musicdrenched streets.