Few weeks ago
Humid summer days seemed to melt into even more humid summer nights with air so thick it pressed upon ones skin, hundreds of fireflies all aglow lifted off the dewy grasses and beautifully decorated gardens adorned with the most precious of ornamental plants so slowly it seemed they struggled against the weight of moisture hanging heavily in the night air.
She sat half dressed on her porch, with a cold glass of iced tea, dripping from condensation while listening to the bullfrogs call, the calls which reminded her of the sound loose strings on a banjo might make. First one bullfrog would begin the chorus then another and another joining in until the pond seemed surrounded by them.
She gazed absentmindedly at the full moon with a sullen expression, her tearstained face was puffy and swollen in grief.
