Season of the Frog (Part II)

This is the 2nd part in a series.

Under the full moon I went. I locked my bike up at the edge of the park knowing that sometimes the best approach is a gradual one. I walked by the first patch of ash trees all huddled together in mass, like a group of gossiping teens. And there under the full light of the lunar star was a bench – my first stop. I smoked a little, drank a little, and took it all in - the sound of the frogs in the distance, the way the cool night air felt on my hands and face, the night sky being painted and repainted by the incoming clouds. America must have been singing of spring when they said, the days are longer, the nights are stronger, than moonshine.

After while, I moved on, approaching my final destination, getting closer and closer. The moon’s reflection danced off puddles of water – molded by clumps of grass, rippling water, and clouds. And the frogs sang on, getting louder and louder with every step. I’ve been here several times over the years, but tonight they were at a whole new level. They were so entranced by their mating song; they didn’t even notice my approach. Not until I made it to the bench hidden in the darkness, under the trees, behind the water, mud, and grasses of the Amazon wetlands. All it took was one careless step and one frog went silent - then another, and another, and another. They dropped off like dominoes. Only the sound of the night air remained.

So I sat motionless, waiting. The frogs picked-up one by one, as I knew they would, adjusting to my presence, getting louder and louder. Soon they hit their peak and it was deafening. Sill I wanted more. I dreamed of plopping myself right in the middle of all that amphibian madness, but I figured the frogs didn’t want a human messing with their little orgy. So I listened on from a safe distance instead.

16 of the 32 ounces of beer had already made their journey from the bottle to my kidneys and now they were telling me it was time for the next part of the trip. So, I walked to the edge of the wetlands. A few solitary frogs were there singing their love song. “What are you guys doing out here?” I thought in their direction, “All the fun’s over there.” And I considered their chances of finding a mate, all the way out here, away from the crowd. Not too good. Survival of the fittest I guess. But is it really a question of the fittest, the strongest, versus the weak, the weakest? I’m not so sure. Maybe these frogs are just different. It’s not a difference a scientist would notice with all his or her abstract classifications based on physical appearance. No, it’s a difference on the inside, a difference in heart, in spirit, in personality. Maybe these frogs don’t like crowds. Maybe they don’t like following the masses. Maybe these frogs for some reason or another are different from all the other frogs. That doesn’t make them less valuable. After all, it’s diversity that makes the world the interesting, ever changing, beautiful place that it is. And aren’t these frogs just as much a part of that as the others? More? In fact, if variety is the spice of life, aren’t these rare, lonely frogs in some ways, the most precious frogs of all?

“Maybe. But that's a hard life to bear.” I thought to myself as I wished them luck and returned to my bench near the more obvious mass of frog existence.

I stayed with the frogs for some time, and when the beer was gone, it was time to go. I headed home, bought more beer, and spent the night drinking, smoking, writing, and thinking. I stayed-up till five in the morning. I woke at nine for work, had a job interview at one, and at nightfall did it all over again. This is how I live.