Hurricane Beryl Frogsong (173 words)

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What poor creatures—frogs I think? Yes, frogs—are rattling insistently beneath the hissing sheets of rain? The big silver-backed leaves of the neighbor’s sycamore are plastered against the garage, tall oaks wildly throw their own small leaves like confetti. The alley is a river.

I cajole terrified dogs one by one out to pee, remembering how our wheelchair-bound governor was crushed in his prime while jogging under a falling oak. These huge old mossy trees, oh please spare us as I force each miserable, sodden dog to sniff out an acceptable spot before she can bolt back inside.

The frogs sing on. They are echoing our dread, I think. Or maybe—maybe the frogs are laughing at us, laughing at our terror and our worry of the air conditioning going out.

Or maybe they don’t sing about us at all. Maybe they sing contented and joyful, deep in the wet soil, safe from the thrashing treetops and swinging powerlines. “Oh good,” they say, “We have big puddles again. Let’s make some babies.”