It is dusk after a week of rain. The pasture is saturated and the swale filled with shining water. The horses seem not to mind their hooves sunk deep in the mire. The lush grass must be tasty.
The sun has dipped behind the undulating Inverness ridge, trading places with the grey balloons of cumulus clouds that push inland, gathering steam to drench us again tomorrow.
The pasture is filled with a new sound. It is frogs, I think. A croaking chorus. Could it be the little green frogs we find occasionally on the deck? Pacific tree frogs, little divas of the winter night. Perhaps tomorrow morning, when the sun rises, I will hear them again and be sure to spy upon them. Each time I am here, a new wonder.
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