The Rain. The Frogs. And me.

We're having weather. We-interrupt-your-regularly-scheduled-broadcast, flood-warning weather. 

This is Texas. That's pretty common. Once you've lived here for a few years, a flood warning barely pricks your ears.

But it's spring, and the drip-drip-drop got all the frogs singing.

Sitting in my living room, the frog songs drowned out the thunder and lightning that was such big news that my mother in Washington state texted me that I needed to be careful.

No really. Mating frogs will drown out thunder.

I went out on my covered porch thinking that I would just stand and listen for awhile. Then, I got sight of a frog sitting out in the middle of the pavement. 

I barefooted it out to the middle of the street, watching this little creature sitting there breathing.

As I made my way back to the house, I realized where I was. I live on a half-acre in an urban oasis, a haven for baby doves and color-changing lizards and bees and hawks. The empty lot that's part of the property I rent shimmered in the night light, as a temporary pond formed.

I waded out into the field, sinking up to my ankles in mud. As I did, the water - two or three inches deep at least -- shivered and braided  away from me. Frogs. Hopping away at my approach, cutting patterns into the water with their wakes. 

I stopped to watch them, and was startled into laughter by a huge BURRRRRP just a few feet away. I looked to see one of the frogs, air pocket under its chin ballooned out, preparing for its song.

After a few minutes, soaked by the rain, I waded back to the house.

Isn't it magic, when a lawn turns into a pond, when the air is full of singing, and the night gives way to laughter?