Let It Rain

It’s rained for nine days straight.

Proud and unyielding, the oldest trees in our backyard stand resolute, while their younger, more limber companions move rhythmically to the whispering music of the breeze, swaying limbs undulating like the arms of hula girls.

It was last evening that the first of them made his presence known. From the dark, a guttural creak like the sound of an old door. A male toad. Then, a throaty chirp in response. The object of his affection.

We discover one of their kin near our back door. He lurches about the patio as I reach for him, and then again. Finally, enfolded gently in my hand, I coo to him, trying to reassure him the way one would a new puppy or a colicky infant, but he will have none of it. His body quakes as he croaks in a defiant, fearful plea to the universe. His neck balloons like bubble gum, blown to a translucent orb the color of aquamarine. He is beautiful in a grotesque, amphibious way, bulging eyes like tiny black pearls, his back an intricate quilt of grey-green geometric tiles.

Eventually, I release him into the soggy yard.

“No one will believe him when he gets back to his friends,” my companion predicts.

“Oh, yeah sure you were abducted by aliens.”

And the rain continues.

Linda Allison is a recovering banker, retired after 40 years in the financial services industry, now working to be what she was always going to be when she grew up: a writer.  She lives in Houston, Texas with the love of her life. Linda holds an MLS from Rice University and is co-editor of her alumni newsletter. Mother, grandmother, photographer, rock collector, Barre addict, hiker, extremely poor golfer who loves to play.

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