the pond frog voices of the morning are so distinct from the night’s rhythms of tree frogs. the cadence of the evening are a steady all ‘round—there is no direction or distance to their voices. but here in the morning each is distinct. close and far. almost i can pinpoint each as its voice glides across the water. it is not the constant. it is conversational, each independent in its dialog, not a riot, individuals, not a mob. and the sound sinks so low in its throb than the night riotous mob. i know, this morning, they are close–i cannot see them—so close they tease me as i try to catch a glimpse. hidden under the dock and there in the edge where the threshold between land and water is hidden in the strokes of the grass. the voices so deep in their thrumb, as though i had thumpt a rubber surface stretched taught with my finger. i can imagine the fullness of their throats filling with intent. with whom do they speak? are they just singing to the morning? what is it they need to say?
the birds are many, but their songs drift to the back. this morning it is the thrumb of the the pong frogs, i hear as a sit out here on the lake.
coolness is just beginning to fade; i’ve stripped off my sweat shirt as the sun warms the back of my neck. it is going to be an unusually warm, even hot, Connecticut day. i am ready.0