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 might be hard to spot, but their sounds give them away.

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

I’m glad I heard them, happy their voices rose over the barking dogs and the swim meet bullhorn. 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.)