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.
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I'll try to be more apparent.
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