I’m thinking about frogs. Writing to you now the night has closed in and the frogs are singing. Over the layers of their songs is the low hunting call of the mopoke. I’ve taken to my bed. My back, its lingering malaise, has flared (for no apparent reason) with an intensity that has closed down my world. To be still is something I find hard. Something I rarely am. I have learned to think and feel in movement and instead, this week I have been forced to be quiet. The experience has not been comfortable.
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