We hear them far off in the woods, just as the sun sinks further down, and I stop, like you do when the world slips up behind and surprises you, and he can’t believe it either, so we stand there and listen long and neither one of us can stop smiling.
The frogs have returned.
Then, after a bit, he and the dog go crashing off through the quiet of dusk coming down, worn carpet of leaves rustling as they bound through, both boy and Lab questing for game and excitement, but the Little One and I, we just stand there, having already found it. For hadn’t I mentioned that the frogs had returned?
On pond’s rim, she, her small fingers entwined through mine, stands wordlessly. A symphony of sound, trilling low and deep, fills the spaces between the trees, lifts us too. The light falls warm on our winter-faces, and this tattered snow still hugging water’s edge. But that sound. From where? It is like it’s the water itself, a looking glass of trunks and limbs, that croons.
At first, when I am still looking with everyday eyes, I don’t notice them. It takes time for eyes to adjust to stillness, to slow and really see. And then, they are, on the far side, these glinting eyes flickering up through waters cold and murky. The peepers are back and we see them.
I want front row seats. Can we pick our way across the swamp and closer? She squeezes my hand tight and across the bog we splash.
In a flash, the pond snaps shut. All is soundless. Just glassy reflection of branches pointing to that curve of muted moon come early.
She and I swish swash further out, as far as we can go. Then wait.
On this isle of tangled grass, the water slowly rises up to boot ankles. A red tail hawk swoops and soars, his wings motionless on the currents. Moon rides higher, tailing sun dipping. We say nothing, this Little One and I, but watch swamp’s mirror, waiting stock-still for singers emerging. Bungler lab charges up, smashing reflection of anticipating faces.
“Go, Boaz!”she whispers in a loud lisp. “We waiting for the frogs to thing!” From within the woods somewhere, boy whistles and dog ricochets off.
Again, we wait.
Then one by one, they pop to the light. We catch our breath and dare not move. Then tentatively it comes, this chorus , then crescendo, throaty yet gilded, and she squeezes my hand and we smile, spellbound.
Long we soak in these songs on golden pond.
And then, when our toes are cold and the shadows stretch to fading dark, it’s time to go.
“We leaving the frogs, now?” she whispers up to me.
True, I too could stay here forever, but yes, time to go home. Things to do.
We splash through the water, feet seeking islands of matted grass. The sudden hush turns our heads. She’s soundless, the swamp, blinked silent by our sloshing.
I scoop her up and tickle her ear with what I’m endlessly learning and relearning.
“Sometimes we only hear life sing when we still.”
Today’s Drink: “After the wind there was an earthquake, but the LORD was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake came a fire, but the LORD was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper.” ~1 Kings 19:11-13
Related: Rocking Rhythms
Why the Push?
Slow to Savor
Spring Thoughts
