Studly Doright is still snoring. I’m sitting on the screened in porch, sipping my coffee and waiting for the sun to rise. It’ll be at least another half hour before the lake gets any rays, and the darkness is deep. I wouldn’t venture out past the back door just yet; although, I imagine Wonder Woman wouldn’t be afraid of the dark.
The frogs are busy. They don’t croak. They click and clack and chirp. Some sound like those pendulum desk toys with metal balls bouncing off one another faster and faster, louder and louder, until they suddenly cease as if a large hand has intervened in the laws of physics.
When the amphibians’ chatter ends, birds begin tentatively singing their morning songs. Some contribute lilting melodies while others sound vaguely like annoying car alarms. Where is the giant’s hand?
The sky has begun to lighten and the squirrels are dancing in the dry leaves as my cat Patches attends to their every move. I imagine in her dreams she chases them down and gives them a good scolding.