Day comes on its mission to earth arriving with its blue umbrella so everyone receives, except the brooms in the cupboard. They sweep things under the carpet but not day, day gets our attention. It is not for the things of the night. Day separates this from that, this is different says light. Day closes night's eye, summons shadows. I am called out. The baby frogs don't care, it's like this: they wait at the edge of the road to Minety. Don't do it, you'll get killed. Are you mad we are on our way to somewhere else.
Today everything is in the abalone moment, the sliding gossamer of eyes, the light making all things contiguous linking the world as shimmeramas do. Did you say shimmeramas? That's a world first as this day makes clear that I am still here, and still come the frogs making their first journey on land. Is it this way or that way? Don't follow me kiddo, I'm lost too.
Day comes raining on my world so fine that I cannot see that eyes I see through are my contribution to world peace. I say I want only the light which arrives. By day I belong yet I am alone. Another paradox lost on frogs. What is this life? The frogs are at the coal-face of not knowing what to say.
Day steps on the gas, seed-shuttles the fields, rouging the earth red until it bleeds; eyes wide open now the pollinating star of my ship of dreams on sparrow's ocean. I look around me dumb-tied by this cherished knot of wonder I never can unravel. Not now. It's a perfect day for a frog, the sky threatens black showers. They have arrived and know why: they are waiting for the rainbow. This is what they have been dreaming about.