The percussionist pounds a resonant and random beat on his timpani. The choir squeaks its confused chorus. The conductor frantically flails his arms. A chaotic cacophony of sound ensues.
An orchestra tuning up? A school concert? A bizarre alternate form of music? No! This is Barbadian music of the night.
The flailing maestro - giant palm fronds moving spastically in the Caribbean breezes. The percussionist - the spring tide surf pounding its waves on our shore. The choir - my beloved tree frogs, chirping in a volume that belies their minuscule size. These mighty little frogs, no larger that the end of your baby finger, celebrate nightfall each and every evening with their nocturnal chirping. It is a sound, when heard in a movie theatre or on television, that immediately transports me to Barbados.
Our window is open to a million twinkling stars, to the moonlight laying her shimmering path across the sea and to caressing Caribbean breezes. My head rests on the pillow. Let my lullaby commence. A little night music, please maestro!
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