I awoke two hours later with the vaguely pleasant sensation that tiny cool hands were gently patting me. They were on my bare legs and arms and face and in my hair, on my feet and throat and hands. I could feel their cool weight through my T-shirt on my chest and belly. “Hmm,” I moaned turning slightly before I opened my eyes and a series of facts came to me in slow motion.
There was the fact fact of the moon and the fact that I was sleeping out in the open on my tarp.
There was the fact that I had woken because it seemed like small cool hands were gently patting me and the fact that small cool hands
were gently patting me.
And then there was the final fact of all, which which was a fact more monumental than the moon: the fact that those small cool hands were not hands , but hundreds of small cool black frogs.
Small cool slimy black frogs jumping all over me.
Each one the size of a potato chip. They were an amphibious army, a damp smooth-skinned militia, a great web-footed migration, and I was in their path as they hopped, scrambled, leapt, and hurled their tiny, pudgy, bent-legged bodies from the reservoir and onto the scrim of dirt that they no doubt considered their private beach.