The gurgle of spring's silt. Moon's light spilt across amorous frogs and pond's glassy lip. Can't sleep. From bed, I catch the cicada's shrill delight, the cricket's clatter. There's nectar next door if you've a mind to gather. Don't miss it - spring is near. If not, it's off to sleep with you: a gargle of salt, a goodnight kiss, pillow company and a quilt of dreams. Splendid, yes. But not for me. I'm for the frogs tonight: green-eyed and mud-blessed, spring-coiled, tutored by a tiger lily, full-voiced, off-key. Must go. Can't miss.