It’s been raining frogs for weeks now.

They’re everywhere-

in and on everything.

You can’t do anything without there being dozens,
or hundreds,
or thousands of frogs in the way.

They’re in the bed, the sink, the cupboards, the toilet, the walls.

They’re slipping over each other
as they tumble down the gutters and wash out upon the lawn.

Their chanting is louder than rain

and as incessant

as the monsoon din.
The kookaburras have eaten so much they can’t laugh.

The heron are all full.

The snakes can’t move.

The crows have resigned.

The water dragon surrendered.

There is no end in sight to these raining frogs.

We have learnt to live with them;

to adapt to their presence;

to survive them.

They themselves are ambivalent-

unperturbed by our despair

as we sweep and shovel them out of our home.

We measure them in buckets each morning.

Sometimes half a bucket of frog has fallen overnight-

sometimes two.

We must wade through frogs when we go outside now.

We’ve even got a canoe to row through them

so we can go and see if you’ve sent us any mail.

Of course we must scoop them out with a bucket

lest we sink in a sea of frogs-

on the way to the letterbox-

full of frogs.

I just hope you come back soon-

as it seems you forgot to turn the frogs off before you left-

and as funny as the curse must be,

I fear I will become one,

before you’ve time to love me.

Benjamin W Wild (c) 2014

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