Watching Rain Sheet Down the Windows, from Inside with the Children

I wanted to go alone down to the beach
with a sound recorder
and listen to the rain.
Could I make my bare feet silent

down the sloppy boardwalk, their slap
covered by the splash of drops
into the many minute puddles formed
by each slightly concave plank? If I listened

hard enough, would drops hitting the rusty
nail heads be distinguishable as a subtle
melody describing the length and breadth
of the path's passage through scrub and seagrass

in an unknown tonal code?
I wanted to know whether, beneath
the bass persistence of frequent thunder
and the asymmetrical static stomping of the surf

I would be able to hear the patter of individual
droplets on the sand, each one striking
exactly where it was intended. Would the kiss-
pop-pucker of clams' receding be audible

under the din, perceptible as part
of nature's symphony? At the height
of the storm would I hear the thunderous subatomic
approach of the lightning bolt intended for me?