The frogs are back.

The breek-breek-breek runs from the warm sunny afternoon into the depths of the night. Winter is melting away, turning to dew as Spring slowly wakes, reaching out from the covers, smiling; it knows this is its time.

The frogs are back.

Coats go on in the morning, but slide off in the afternoon, and stay off. Jeans are being traded for shorts, sweaters lie crumpled in the corners of drawers, doomed to wait until it is again their turn.

The frogs are back.

Children sense the swift changes and splash gleefully in the puddles left behind by winter's speedy thaw. Adults appreciate it; no ice to plague their vehicles in the morning rush of passing congruously inconsistent days.

The frogs are back.

It's night time now, the sky has a twinkle in its starry eyes. Even as the moon wanes, its renewed vigor can be felt. As the frogs keep singing their breek-breek-breek, I'm slowly lulled to sleep, to sleep, so slowly lulled to sleep.

The frogs are back.