Listening to frogs at Pt Pleasant

This morning’s weather managed to realize both mild and tending toward eventual storm, with air so full of microscopic drops that they were omnipresent (nearly requiring the ability to breathe underwater) and invisible.  A good day to go to Pt Pleasant Park, where the trails have just been relined with cedar chips and smell better than earth itself.

The blackberry flowers haven’t given over to fruit yet, but all the trees, of course, are in full leaf, dripping noisily among themselves. There weren’t many people around and as many dogs as walkers.  And the joggers, of course, in this joggingest of all cities in the world.

Following Birch Rd (which is a secondary path in spite of the denominator) up from the container port, there’s a pond held in the curve of the land.  Pale lavender irises are blooming in it now (in contretemps to the yellow water lily buds closer to the park’s entrance) and, around the curve–after the joggers have gone by and their talk has faded–the aural evidence of frogs.

These are not the deep throated bullfrogs that shout across New England in July.  They engage in something closer to call and response, with gaps between each effort.

And then more joggers call as they round the curve and the frogs hide.

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