The bullfrogs were happy this morning. They bellowed beneath bridges, sang from the banks of reedy ponds. I didn’t see them, but I could imagine their slick skin, their bulging eyes, their camouflage coloring. They don’t want us to see them, but their sounds give them away.

They were celebrating the moisture and the damp, joining their voices in a chorus of thanksgiving, though they may not see it that way. No doubt mating is on their minds.

I’m glad I heard them, happy that their voices rose over the swim meet bullhorn and the dogs barking. It’s good to know they’re hopping and croaking. It’s good to know they’re alive.

(A bullfrog birthplace? We often see tadpoles here.)