glowing green, spreads over the branches of the trees and far across the grass, transforming the yard beyond the road’s edge into an odd province ruled by frogs and mosquitoes that gradually slides back into being a harmless lawn. You can hear the sounds of the beasts from even further away. I scurry closer through the thicket and see how dragonflies and spotted butterflies split the ever-changing gauze of sound that the flies weave around the smell. The pool festers, simmering like green watery jelly in the grip of the banks. In the middle of the warm thick slobber you can trace some lazily undulating decomposing plants and, on top of them, the great slime kings. The bullfrogs are gathered there, and their coarse croaking sinks heavily into the tussocks’ threads, their necks pulse as they let out their fat notes over each other, random bass choruses, their big bellies trembling in yellow and brown. The slap and plop sound like obscene. -Ikuisuus..