I heard them last night, the tiny, vocal frogs we know as spring peepers. Their chorus is a sure sign of spring.

They’re late this year, the little guys. Waiting for warmth, I imagine. We all are.

But who among us makes such music of our contentment?

If I read about peepers (and I think I did long ago) I would learn that their sounds are mating calls — not some existential expression of delight.

Still, after a long winter, in the just-dark of a warm spring evening, existential delight is what I hear.