It's dark outside except for the pale glow of a fingernail moon sailing through the starry sea of night.
The wind has tucked itself to sleep with the birds, weary of bustling about and playing with my hair.
The whippet snuffles his way along the rabbit trails, delighted with this late night walk, white tail wagging in the air.
I wander down by the edge of the swamp, grass all soft and dewy 'neath my feet and spy the pallid uoow reflected upside down,
between the reeds along the creek.
The constant, shrilling chorus of frogs and crickets drills my ears yet I find it strangely soothing - a well known voice across the years.
I turn to walk back, whistling the dog and notice in the low fields, the usual ethereal fog begin to form.
I look up at the dark shape of the house and see light from my
kitchen window painting squares upon the lawn.
Amphibean bodies seek the brightness, bellies pressed against the glass and if you warm them with your finger on the other side, they move.
My man and I bet kisses on whose frog would move the most - one of those silly games you play when you're in love.
As I close the door behind me, grabbing logs to feed the fire, the dog flops down upon the hearthrug letting warmth dry swampy mire.
I make cocoa in my blue mug then pull down the kitchen blind - cutting off the froggy light source - abruptly silencing the choir.