window: outside is storm like a movie set, the tarmac dreaming, rain-wave patterns picked up from sounds like hail on the hollow heads of walkers in their sleep, watched by the moon-white nightgown girl in windowed corner room on second story.  you know those little balls on sing along tapes for television, telling you what words to say.  she had a funny thought.  that the hail was bouncing off the street, tree branches, benches, just like that, to tell her what to sing.  the night landing itself small town lyrical out there.   she got out her guitar, sang herself a lullaby.