Take my hand and we’ll wade into the bog together, pausing among the reeds when the water reaches our ankles. While we wait for the bullfrogs to resume singing, you’ll point out constellations by weaving my fingers into yours and lifting my hand to the sky. The arch on my right foot and the arch on your left foot will keep bumping into each other as the warm mud gives way under our weight. The moment your eyes tell me the concert won’t happen with us in the middle of the orchestra pit, one frog will boldly break into song and suddenly we’ll be drowning in adulation, one with the frogs, one with the mud, and one with the shooting star flying overhead.