Night time on Lake Blearyeye
Night time on Lake Blearyeye and the frogs are all a-courtin'. I can hear the deepest voice over to my right, calling out he is available, but to the left there is a challenger. Love is in the air, sounding out, shaking it.
This world of sad voyeurism is all that remains me. My love is gone. She has fallen ill.
The mosquitoes swarming played little part in her sickness. They mostly keep to themselves, away from the citronella, drawn to the ultraviolet light and the pheromones underneath, promising a good time to them; away from the frogs. Sadly all that awaits them is the electrified ZAP across the yard, burning off their wings. They, too, will have a night without love.
My love was radiant in the dim light. Her gone from me now leaves only this ennui, unrequited as we were. Tragedy that she has fallen so, become so distant, so silent.
An owl calls out. It cannot see, but hearing serves it well. A flutter of feathers and a field mouse, somewhere, will sleep alone.
Crickets begin. Usual