Frogs

I pause where the minimart stands next to Hwy Nine. This winding two-lane hasn't started to thrum yet with the train of commuters between Santa Cruz and San Jose. Raindrops drip on my car from sagging redwood limbs, the counterpoint to a chorus of frogs. I still have a backseat filled with papers to deliver further up the road, but I have time for this rare and remarkable concert.

Their trumpeting calls for love eases my mind. Too many thoughts of trivial matters: Will that patron find his paper where I flung it while speeding down the street? Will that garbage dog regret pillaging the neighborhood trash cans? Why is that well-lighted line of mailboxes so creepy? Was someone murdered there? Will this bronchial lump of phlegm ever leave my lungs? All these questions recede as the reptilian serenade pierces my gloom.

It astounds me with its volume and intensity. Crescendos echo against the hills. Sex is imperative this time of year when the earth releases frogs to spawn in the flooded weeds and duff. Galaxies of eggs soon burst with wriggling tadpoles that will sprout legs and grow bulging breasts for next year's rut. This all must be accomplished before the autumn heat seals them back in the hardpan.

The melody rises and falls, forte and pianissimo. Reluctantly, I shift gears and pull way slowly as frog voices wane behind the miles.