Sunday, August 2, 2009
It’s been weeks since I’ve walked these waters—the flattened remnant of what had been the old farm’s pond, now shallow and holding water only until late summer, when August heat dries it, and weeds fill its basin with growth.
This year, though, frequent spells of rain, broken only by days that have given us “the coolest July on record” have kept it well-filled—almost toppling over the rim of my boots, as I walk a slow arc, past the thick green stems, the ring broken only in a few places by the paths of muskrats crossing to the surrounding fields from their burrow on the bank beside me.
The lives of the water have left it now—
salamanders and frogs hatching from eggs left here in great floating masses on the first warm nights of spring, have walked away—
on new legs, to lives on land.
Just a few of the very last to use this small pool linger now, at the edge.
Tiny Tree Frogs, some still with a vestige of tadpole tail, have found safety in the thick green of the ring.
And glow like enameled jewels against green leaves.
Barely half an inch long, minuscule fingers of glass,
even so small, the padded toe reaches and grasps--climbing carefully.
I so love this curious frog.