the frogs and the cricket

it is the dead of the night in a less crowded valley in the city here.
only the streetlight
to my right
in the lane winding past my home is alight.
i sit on the wooden bench in the porch,
hot and fuming the air.

a cricket keeps ticking in half-hearted chirp from the darkness to my left, like a top ticking tired, whirring and stopping, whirring and stopping, and then into that ticking a family of frogs from the darkness ahead goes croaking with sudden gusto and then the croaking--
it stops...
to listen...
to the tired ticking of the lonely cricket...
and then the frogs they burst into another bout of vehement croaking swamping the hesitant chirping of the cricket and they are saying,
sure as the secret of this night,
the rains are coming!!!

it's going to rain!!!
cool showers over the sweltering city from tomorrow!
for three-four days probably, but we shall talk about all that later.

ambi bakes dosa for me in the kitchen.
i can hear it sizzling on the hot flat stone over the stove
and also smell its aroma,
here in the porch.

*****