Frogs

Ill-fated frog fuck-fest. Still February and they wake me at four in the morning with that unmistakable sound of teenagers in the motel room next to mine discovering sex. Cold when I went to bed, but warmer, when they woke me, what is that wind ? Sirocco. Humors. What's with the weather? As it happens, I was burning some Osage Orange knots last night and there are still some coals glowing in the stove, so I start an easy fire on top on them, to heat some water to shave. Even the rain is warm when I go out with flashlight and foam pad to kneel and watch. These bullfrogs are the exact opposite of walnut trees, in that they always spring too soon. No choice but to make an early pot of coffee and check out the blues on the radio. I dreamed about being lost in the desert, but I think that was just dry mouth occasioned by low humidity that is a product of heating with wood. Collective bargaining. The way certain states resemble countries in the mid-east. The forecast makes no sense. Policy has no basis in reality. It's never that simple. Combat exclusion, for instance. Live-fire is bullets, plain and clear, mortar rounds interrupt a resupply. Hundreds of deaths and lost limbs in the interest of fuel for your Hum-Vee. Just saying. I figure I'll die before the shit hits the fan, but the shit is going to hit the fan. It's not oil, it's drinking water that will ultimately be the problem. An hour before dawn, President's Day, and I'm losing muscle tone. My memory improves when I walk the driveway, something about oxygen in the blood. 100% chance of rain, changing to sleet, then snow. I go out to tell the frogs, but they aren't listening, they're involved in a slimy, sexy thing that has nothing to do with thought. I envy them that, remember when that was the way I would go, lost in the passion of the moment. But I know there is another cold blast looming. Simply looking at the calendar, checking my Rolex, I see it's time for the jet-stream to slip back south, and embrace us, once again, in her frigid arms. I'm out of the loop, most of the day, you might say crazed. No threat to anyone, or even myself, but not good company. Best I should be left alone. I remember a particular goat, Clyde, a castrated male we used to mark females in heat; my daughters used to nap, with their heads on his belly, he was always warm and smelled vaguely like a musky vanilla-bean. I remember napping, once, myself, with my head on his belly (warm, and gurgling with his cud), considering human sexuality. I didn't learn anything, but I was very comfortable. A live goat's belly is a nice place to be. A lyric from a song I need to write. Woodchuck loin is fine to eat. A country song. Rampant corruption. Civil war. I understand the Twin Cities are buried. A train in Kentucky. Nothing makes any sense. Fucking frogs. It's already tomorrow. I have to go take a nap.