March has come in like a lamb, which means we'll be in for it before the month rolls out. I'm not fooled by all this sunshine and heat, but the froggies are. Tonight the almost full moon is out, draped seductively in wisps of cloud and smiling her blessings down on the creatures silly enough to think it's time to start breeding.
Car windows open to the balmy, after-dinner air, we're driving down Williamsburg Road (so named because it's the road to Williamsburg, if you stay on it long enough), past the bait shops and a restaurant called Bubba's where one can buy lottery tickets and engage in a little karaoke on selected nights.—As an aside, I'll say that we've never been in. I'm a vegetarian, what are the odds they'll have food that doesn't involve cows?—Now the woods and shops drop behind us and high tension lines soar overhead. The long meadows beneath the pylons are swampy. Even when it's been dry you can usually see standing water and the occasional gray heron wandering around.
Suddenly a chirping chorus spills in the windows.
"Hey! That's frogs!" I cry.
What are the slimy little guys thinking? A week from now their puddles could be frozen over.
"But not tonight," they chirp. "Tonight is the night for love."
217 words | March 5, 2004 10:19 PM | Real true story