After a week of clouds and rain there’s a crisp clear moonlit sky tonight, and the local frogs are audibly demonstrating the reasonableness of amphibian existentialism by jumping happily all over the place and having a real good time!
They’ve been serenading our open bedroom window all night like drunken suitors, unable to cease making frogs of themselves, capitalizing on the graciousness of moisture and moonshine to sing and dance their time away, apparently unconvinced that any of this delicious radiance pouring down should be doing so in any other way than exactly as it’s doing now, lighting the stage for the main event, that compelling Play of Love that’s become so sweetly evident.
Just so, ground once hard and rocky before the rains becomes a verdant bed of grassy loam, gently pushing up tender new life to carpet itself with green praise!
How can we not join in?
Are we not this very life, one primal multi-tongued voice, a chanting chorus of raucous frog sound, echoing like a choir of tipsy monks through the temple halls of this infinite night?
When the opera finally hushes to a whispered refrain, the mystery of this night remains: a soliloquy of stillness, sparse and true, midnight moonshine’s silent silhouette arching over diamond fields of dew, glistening strobes of fractal bliss rhythmically dripping from mossy oaks, star fields swarming in frog delight even after the final croak, serenely garnishing with light the open space we face tonight, all soul-caressed in wonder at this elemental grace, all trace of resistance at last released, all fear outshone by a blessed peace.