This is the fifth year I have had the leisure to mention the frogs, a few weeks now into their song, first one calling to come from the mud or underneath clumps of dead grass further out to the pond. Gather, for the green algae has sufficiently billowed and the ducks have yet to arrive. So I imagine their content.
They stop when I open the door for the dog's last pee of the night. Having finally blocked out their ruckus, the neighbor to the east startles from his sleep.
The fog is coming up from the valley. The dog pauses at the top of the steps as she always does, checking the air as I scan with the flashlight for retinas. Droplets in the air reflect back. Far to the south coyotes celebrate the first night of lambing season.
The wife is still feeding a feral cat now hold up in the barn. It is sick, loose shit all over the floor but still too quick for me to get a clean shot. There is an irony here that I need not belabor.
Despite myself, winter slowly leaves my veins. I could use a good fuck.
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