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  • Writer's pictureJames Kidac


i looked on as it possibly drowned in the floods. the tides had come fast and furious, and the torrent was relentless. even so, you would have expected it to have put up a fight against the harsh elements. well, it did, and brave it was, with an effort that belied its slimey small stature. it stood its ground. well it stood on a leaf in face of terrible winds but frogs, as hoppity as it was, also had a limit of what they could endure in a perfect storm. it could learn if it survived, but there would be many inevitable scars in any outcome. in seconds after the rescinding of tides, the waves from the back grew 50 feet above the ground and swallowed poor frog, amongst many things, from the pond it loves so much.

only after hours of churn and spin did the waves relent, easing into a muffle, and in between spat some green thing into the sandy remnants of the cove miles away from a pond elsewhere. there seemed to be no sign of life, and the skies bemoaned the sadness of the loss of many a small thing. then that same sky saw glistening eyes open slowly from that otherwise green limp body. needless to say, the sun, peeking through pillows of grey, rejoiced! blue skies worldwide smiled in casual drizzly tears. in tomorrow's grace, the land of day had thereafter warm lights and bright blues. And of course piercing dark blues of night.

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