mardi 17 mars 2009

The frogs are awake!

Frog in the sprinkler
July 2006

Poor frogs.

I heard one in the grass in the old stone sink Audouin put in the fountain. I did.

I had just come up in exasperation from the burning pile, where nothing much burned and there is oh so much to burn, and I stopped by the fish-pond-in-a-fountain. I listened. I looked.

I heard.

Rustle. Rustle.

I saw.

Gentle movement in the grass just beyond the favorite mossy spot in the sun.

"I know you're there. Good morning, frogs." They speak English. They are trilingual. Some might not even speak French, having been born since my residency. Come to think of it, no one actually talked to them before my arrival, so they probably don't speak French, any of them.

The croaking that Audouin was sure that he heard two or three weeks ago from up in his sick bed was almost certainly his own voice, echoing in his feverish head.

They're going to hate what's coming. Hate it.

Imagine, giant rakes coming to tear out the trees and shrubs all around you, where you are trying to hide by a corner of your house. Then, the air that you breathe being sucked out from around you and drained away to just where, you know not. In this case, the rest of the reeds being yanked, torn out and the water siphoned off to a children's swimming pool placed next to the basin, where, eventually, some of the plants and rocks to be saved will make their way, and the frogs are hoped to find refuge.

It's a gorgeous day, by the way. 16° celcius, clear skies and the entire week is supposed to be as nice. Someone once suggested -- Hi, Tracy! If you still check in here from time to time, if I haven't bored you to tears and departure -- that I record the daily temperatures with each post.

It was a really good idea, and I regret not doing it because I could swear that the garden is a bit early this year, despite the extreme -- for Moosesucks -- winter.

Maybe I'll start now.

16° C
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