After the rain, a thousand tadpoles flounder on the edges of the ponds.
If there is still a channel, a small connecting vein or artery, they will make their way back to the deeper body.
They are eaten or drown in the absence of water.
Adults are more flexible.
They persist in worlds their younger forms could only imagine.
A story sits at the edge of a rain storm.
We seldom write of calm swimming in cool waters.
Our tales are of frantic scrambling through fading pathways.
Of trying to breathe in unfamiliar worlds.
In the end, if we are very lucky, the tadpole shifts, metamorphosizes.
It is not the butterfly that we should hope to emerge.
The greatest symbol of survival, of balancing the worlds, is a toad.
For more tales of straddling the divide, I have also written a fantasy novel, The Guests of Honor. It is available here.