Ritual

Desert days creep,

begging on the roadside for water—

but are ignored.

 

July brings humidity,

lightning flashes through purple skies,

an usher seating latecomers.

 

Low rumbles over distant Rincons

chariots over rocky mountains,

roaring,

demanding attention like spoiled children,

spitting tantrums of rain

on the sun-cracked coliche.

 

Awakening toads, rushing waters fill dried river washes—

The toads softly begin a song, praising the rain;

calling to ceremony, a frenzied mating ritual.

By morning, the toads are gone,

hidden beneath sand and mud

taking with them the rain,

the song,

the next generation of troubadours.

2015 copyright by Katie Pifer http://www.witchpetals.wordpress.com

frogs

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