We sprayed the frog when it got too dry in summer.

I touched it. Leather in heat. Silk in rain.
It peeked out from a crack between stones. In the steps

leading down to the outside laundry. Miracle fruit tree

on one side. Pink callistemon on the other.
I lay on the step, cheek to cool stone. The smell of

cement. Sometimes when I sprayed the frog, it croaked. I felt the croak

in my cheek. It was always grinning. I grinned back, sometimes.

Sideways. I practised my croak. Sometimes it would answer.
When the miracle fruits turned red we bought limes. Tahitian

if we were lucky. We cut them into wedges. Sat on the steps.

We each chose a tiny miracle fruit from the bush. Chewed

off the skin. Rolled the seed around our mouths. Then we ate

limes. So sweet. Till the acid came biting back.
I put my chin on the step and grinned a lime smile at the frog.

The frog croaked. Rain began to fall.