Rain won’t let go this afternoon.
Palm fronds wear the water like a glove.
They do not wave: there is nothing to wave at.
They shudder, they sag and spill—
and then a ghostly bark announces,
to any female who can hear it,
not that the worst has washed over us
but that a tree frog has had enough
to drink at last, down through his skin,
and waits for love to come to him.
We want to hear what you think about this article. Submit a letter to the editor or write to email@example.com.