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Where the frogs dance

I stand naked in the dark. Earth beneath my feet.

Raindrops, falling hard, raise goosebumps on my arms.

I sigh, shiver at their caress.

Water drips from eyebrows, nose, fingers; cascades from the tips of my loosed hair.

I breathe deeply, exhaling steam, surrendering my warmth to the night.

The sky flashes, magnesium bright.

A pause. A held breath.

Anticipation of the crack of violently ripped air.

It’s inevitable. Inescapable.

The thunder. Reverberating, enveloping, overwhelming. Energising!

And then

there is just the rain

until the energy builds once again.

At my feet, frogs dance amongst dandelion leaves. I crouch to watch them; rainwater meanders along my spine.

I sit amongst the dandelions. Amongst the frogs. Under the storm.

Eyes closed, head raised to the heavens, I remember

washing my hair in a downpour in a camp in Tanzania. Sitting silently on a Madagascan dune, beneath the Southern Cross, watching lightening strike the ocean. Dancing, aged four, in a blue fairy dress. Dancing, to the beat of the storm.

I surrender to the elements.

To the air, the water, the earth.

And to the fire within.

The tears form warm rivers amongst the cold.

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