Call me bold. Or myopic. Or just plain crass. But while the rest of the world mourns the potential loss of a million of the planet’s eight million species in what scientists warned yesterday would be described as the most comprehensive global nature loss ever, I’m celebrating one species: Frogs.
When spring comes, it sounds like there are a million of them.
Our former house bordered a nature preserve. It was really just a detention pond in a large suburban neighborhood, but it sounds better to call it a nature preserve. It was filled with turtles and frogs (and other creatures) with which I would occasionally cross paths while running on the nearby paths and streets. Turtle are a quiet neighbor, but frogs are not. At least not during mating season. The trill of the frogs’ song saturated the air to the point my brain cancelled it out.
It’s not until I moved to this new house, which is not near standing water, that I noticed the absence of the frogs’ peeping. But recently, as I was driving on a back road with the windows open, I noticed the distinctive frog ribbiting as I passed the puddles in the farm fields. Pass a puddle, the sound clamored. Pass a dry spot, the sound died away. Clearly, these farmers aren’t using too much pesticide; even their transient mud puddles attract residents. It was glorious, actually, hearing the frog calls. Such a clear sign of spring.
Frogs are among the planet’s few fully amphibious creatures, as much as home in water as they are on dry land. But water they demand. As I was walking my granddaughter this afternoon, I could hear a frog’s bre-ke-ke from a half block away. I traced it to the decorative pond in the yard of a neighbor.
Couldn’t see him. But definitely heard him.