Much of the Japanese Summer is punctuated by threatening typhoons spiraling up the coastline. Typhoon watch is a daily news worthy intermission. We sit, windows rattling in the first winds, skies imminent with storm-calm, umbrellas dancing inside-out. And we wait, eyes glued to over-analytical reporters with anxious hypotheses of the brewing clouds. Stay indoors. We pick up the ukulele and compose Typhoon symphony Number 8, over a soundtrack of Japanese TV, as we await the arrival of not only the winds but of far away friends blowing in from the West with gifts of news and embraces from a land I love. False alarms, we venture out, to the sea, to the shops, to examine the sky and ask where Number 8 blew. We mark our rain drenched indoor Summer by changing the Shoji gami panels, to let all of the light in. We are lucky to be sparred the typhoons, the landslides, the unpredictability, the fearful reality of this Summers weather.