Frogs

There is very little spring where we live. It goes from frigid cold to summer almost overnight. This past weekend we had snow. Last night, we grilled out on the back deck, drank a wonderful bottle of table chardonnay (Conundrum) and swatted at mosquitoes that appeared from nowhere.

When winter finally breaks the sense of relief is almost palpable here. I see a Robin and get excited. I hear a Red-Winged Black Bird and know it is about to become warm. My crocuses always poke up through the ground when it is still cold. Of all signs that warmer weather is tiptoeing back, it is the frogs I miss the most.

One of the clearest memories from my childhood home are of standing in the yard, just past dusk, gazing across the plowed field and breathing in the cool spring air. I would listen to the frogs hum and chirp and croak their spring lullaby.

Last spring when I heard that beautiful sound coming from behind my house I knew I was home.

I was gone for too long.

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