By John Grey Heavy rain bounces off the porch, ricochets into the garden for a rose's second helping. Headlights on high, a car rolls by playing Rossini of all things. Not a thieving magpie, but a cheerful chickadee warbles the low notes. Wind is on the rampage, trees bend like stooping men, windows rattle like coin jars. It's an afternoon in free-form, violence here, music there. There'll be some ruin in their near term but a clear light, a green smell, to go with it. And roses will bloom, inspired by all outside of it but colored from within.