RAINY NIGHT EPIC

Last night I stepped out onto the deck in the whisper of new Spring rain and heard, in the rainfilling rice paddy across the road, the first two or three fresh-from-the-mud frogs of the year singing in top form - their voices clearly invigorated by their long sleep - about how amazing it was to be out here in the dark of the larger world once again, so rich in water above and below, just as it was last time they were here together in this very same place of long tradition, wasn’t it a delight their songs went, recounting once more the ever-astonishing adventure of having spent another dark instant of winter under the soil, which had clearly only recently been tilled, though they didn’t remember a thing about that; yet they’d all survived to gather here once more and sing the ancient tales to one another in calls and responses, just as their forefrogs had done all the way back to the beginning of everything there ever was and ever would be, as it has long been told. They sang on even as I was later falling asleep and lost track of the lyrics. No doubt they went on all night and exhausted themselves, for the morning was all sunlight and only the manic warbler was singing. But there's no keeping that kind of spirit down; I went out there tonight and they were at it again, in even greater numbers and louder than ever, singing once again the epic tales they never tire of.