When The Frogs Hunt

When the dying sun is a spilled yolk in the sky, flowing westward and away down the curve of the world; when the clouds are snagged wisps anchored on futurestars, the rest tailing across like a bridal train - here I float absolutely still in the rippling lens of water up to my cheekbones.  The pressure of some hundreds of gallons against my slow-breathing chest cavity.

This is when the frogs hunt.

From behind the Austin stones they come, three hops and long pauses as they crane their necks, vision on both sides of their heads. Occasionally, you'll hear the quick releasing and retracting of a tongue against the air searching for the same insects the bats glide for.

With an inhuman discipline, I remain buoyed while the flittermice drop themselves onto the water near my head, grazing the surface silently, without disturbing the reflection of the stars just now coming into focus. And as they tumble through the air of the night, strung forward by the vision of sound, an axis buck bellows for a mate out in the mesquite.

Everything wants something when the sun dies - coming from their hiding places to be fulfilled under a hot, hot moon.

And tonight, I quietly retreat from what I want to see the world work without me.