Frogs and things come out in the rain and moist air that warms as summer draws near. Termites are stupid bugs, like lemmings are stupid animals, walking off the edges of cliffs. With termites it's flying out of their holes in the mud, or maybe they were finally hatching, in a heavy downpour no less, pelted and knocked down, broken wings on the wet cement, only to become fodder for hungry frogs. The frogs seem to expect this turn of events, and they take their time hopping from roadside ferns and grass to sick their nimble tongues on hapless bugs.
My brother Sam and i, running in the rain, pause in contemplation of nature's play.
At the bird cave: goggles on, check.
Moss covered rocks everywhere - slimy ones - check.
Sam scrubs a rock clean on which to stand in the river,
tiny waterfalls trickle on the bank,
inversion rocks decompress the spine.
I watch Sam lay in bird poo but say nothing-
Me thinks he does not care.
On the shore: guitar and bamboo sticks.
Sam refuses to enter the bird cave:
"It's not even a cave," he says.
"A tiny indentation in the rock," he says.
"You made it out to be something awesome," he says.
And I laugh.
He is right.
But the the bird cave is still great,
dim and damp yes,
but silent.
