Three nights ago, I turned out the lights and settled into bed. The cello solo was softy inhabiting my background, a good book was at hand and the window was open to the last-gasp sounds of summer. A loud chirp broke through my unconsciousness and I wandered back out to the darkened living room. My first thought was that it was a wayward cricket. But the song was too loud and insistent. When I put the lights on, it stopped. Turn the lights off, it stated again, sad and melodious. There was no doubt, it was a late season tree frog singing for a lover.
For two nights, I was privileged to his serenade. Then he stopped. Well, he never really stopped. He merely moved deeper into the house. Tonight, I heard him in Julia’s den, perched in a plant, sucking up all the summer moisture he could find. Singing for a mate.
Unless a lady makes the same mistake (or smart move,) he will die alone, the end is near. Not for his species, just for him.
I retired to my bedroom, where, over the cello solo, I heard the call of the coyotes as they ran down the mountain to the swamp in hot pursuit of a deer. I sent along a wish for that deer of escape or a quick death.
Ultimately, I would chose to be the deer facing it head on, rather than the frog who made a bad decision…