There was a single rain shower at the very beginning of the season. The frogs emerged from their winter hibernation in a vociferous choir that lasted well into the night.
Spring saw clouds forming every afternoon. Clouds evaporated in the evening heat – extreme, complaint-inducing, tree-shrivelling heat. The frog ponds dried up, executing the brood of tadpoles. The frogs disappeared, silencing the night.
But yesterday there was a tiny frog in one of my remaining pot plants.
This tiny frog, recently metamorphosed, perfect in form, has survived the dust bowl that used to be her watery home.
And so, we adapt.