Eyes of fiction spot a misty entrance. The backyard is flooded.

    “Ancient pond,” said Frog.

      Basho dipped his brush.

       ancient pond

      Frogs jump. The brush moved on . . .

       frog jumps in

       the water sound

    “Heard of the Bhagavad Gita?”

    “Can't say as I have, Bosh”

    “So then, Frog, whatever happened to la dolce vita?”

    “Saturday Night Live!”

Everyone knows how typhoons blur calligraphy, but before it melted . . .

     to jump or not to jump

     that is the question

Under driving rain the mountain smeared tradition, leaving not a bare rock, as one might expect, but,

    “Redeep!”

Or the verge of sanity at the crossroad of vertigo.

    “Are you laughing, Bosh?”

    “Frog I do think, for all your warts, that you're a bit thin

     skinned.”

    “That's my beauty. Don't you just love rain?”

    “It's a point of view, Frog. And my take? With all that drift of

      candy wrappers in dank subway walks beneath city streets,

      all good to go, it's in the very walls.”

    “My ancestors are visiting and in no mood to refund the cost

     of pizza.”

Such language! I couldn't help thinking, real comfort knows what's meant without having to stumble over it. Brass buttons, heroic badges of forgotten battles, its all difficult enough when just a blade of grass or clover after rain would do.

“You don’t' say.” Basho was quiet for a moment. “Hatcheries,

  unlike pizza, cannot be mailed. There are regulations. But as for

 mountain mist, bare rocks demand concentrated attention.”

The rain pelting down mercilessly. City people might stroll dark sub-walks, only to emerge blinking at cherry blossoms in amazement. I'd say it's all a matter of training, shoveling coal for heat, eventually moving on to clean burning natural gas. And not a squawk from a falcon but that everything, all things are acceptable. And that tunnel but dust to dust . . .

“Let the dust fly!” Frog belched. “A falcon's view of the

 hatchery, there we go, reminds me of the Bard.”

Basho stood up straight as a poet.

“It would be a sinuous wind that foundered on misty shores, a

  rank swamp fog selling human goodness short. A scorpion's

  tale.”

The scheme of galaxies and discussions of freedom, logical paradoxes were all moot. How to calculate the cost of pizza when everything is the center of everything? Where is the comfort? At the back of the wardrobe perhaps, a hidden door, the entrance to places shy of the light but quite interesting in themselves. Once you got to know them.

“There was a way, Bosh.”

“And beyond reflections in windows, geese honking at traffic

  jams and, to speak the truth, galaxies have not named

  themselves but depend upon my brush for their existence. 

  Without my eyes, who would see them, without my ears

  if a tree falls in the forest . . .”

I have tempted the eyes of fiction, a falcon catapulted over tunnels. With all things considered, the Ouija is simply spooky laughter at a distance. This jitney is a rambling, psychedelic cigarette machine, and south rim Pacific sunsets. So our passengers might as well keep their seats. They've paid their dues.

    "It's not fair!” groaned Frog in deep despair.

    “No, no, I protest! Let's have some credit for Basho!”

Frog pouted.

   “OK, do it.”

With only one person to thank, they have risen in combination. Consciousness? Try chewing gum and patting your head with one hand while rubbing your tummy with the other, and Goodbye Frog.

   “Goodbye, but I'll miss you.”

Goodbye Basho.

   “I have nothing more to say.”

The rain of ten thousand frogs splashing down. Susan said, “I think the drought is over, David.” And there on our kitchen table, the letter from Santa Clara's WaterSmart Program:

YOUR WATER SCORE

WAY TO GO WATER SAVER!

YOU RANKED IN THE TOP 20%