Against the side of my house, underneath the drainpipe.
That's where I stood, listening to the last drizzle of March drumming on the roof, counting off that natural 4/4. It was beautiful, that rain falling from bright night skies.
It was then I realized the tree frogs had returned to Old Maid's Pond. Every spring they chirp their nightly calls, chanting that off-beat sound I've grown so accustomed to. Every autumn they fade out, slowly quieting, dying down in a drawn-out diminuendo that finally ends when the first leaf falls.
They sing memories I do not yet have, of people I have yet to meet, and places I have yet to see.
Of laughter, of cold beer, of barbecues, fires, acoustic guitars, and in-depth conversations.
As winter slowly boils down into spring, that froggy din penetrates my windows and my ears as I lie awake, staring out my skylight, reflecting on journeys past.
The distant calls both calm and excite me. They let me know that everything is going to be okay.
I'll try to be more apparent.