You know when its still, the terrier you share the shotgun double with has settled down, a window unit kicks on across the block. You hear a frog. Chirruping out, right next to you. It announces itself, with its unique little call, twice, three, four times and another calls back, in its own chirping little voice, its trademark pattern of squeaky syllables, then another and another, each voice its own. Surrounding you. Stretching away for blocks, as if you were on a bayou?

I saw the tiniest little frog a few days ago. I had to get down on my hands and knees to see exactly what it was. A crew of four, five tiny sailors his size could fit comfortably in a canoe made of a hollowed out black-eyed pea. The little bugger was quick, and vanished when he made it off the concrete and into the dirt. Like the head of a pin.