Deep in the velvety pocket of late July, the bubbling stream out back would simmer with the green of those nestled in the water’s muddy edges. Chilling comfortably in their summer home, the frogs would sit quietly next to the gurgling flow and bathe in its steady rhythms. And over the small stone bridge, my bare feet, calloused from curiosity, always were surprised by the chill of the slab and the tumbling water when I would stand on the edge and peer down at our visitors, hands at the ready.
Not far off, the white plastic basin lay in wait, humming and tapping with the movement of my unwitting prey. Fingertips hovering over the water quivered with the anticipation of just the right moment—there. My hands fell into their places around the cool and slimy creature and held fast as the legs struggled to spring out of captivity, wriggling with all the strength of my victim’s indignation. In an instant, I was hopping over the slippery grass with the squirming captive behind my laced-up fingers, toward the gleaming tub nearby. At the last moment, the frog leapt free from my straining grasp—only to fall into the reaches of the bin.
And there they sat, all seventeen of them, throats bobbing in and out—why did they do that? —jumping occasionally, until, when time would catch up with all of us, and we were no longer carried away, I would wander over to the back of the barrel, lean against the edge, and tip it over, watching all of them go free, leaping across the yard to the icy stream whence they had come.