As history books have showed;
But never a name to go down to fame
Compared with that of Toad!"
– Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows, Ch. 10.
After sundown, a walk down the bund revealed the creatures of its dark side. Geckos lurked and leapt from the steel railings that do a half-hearted job of keeping visitors from stepping onto the rocky edge and descending either to the dry cells of tall grass on the eastern side or the swampy depths to the west. Over our heads, disturbed shorebirds tewed their annoyance while tomb bats wheeled in high-pitched hunts. Eyes aglow, nightjars crouched in trees and hawked over the shrubland with long wingbeats and metallic toks. Tree frogs squawked from the woods below, leaving the open ground to field frogs and Asian toads that found their way on the tarmac and sensing our interest, took the heroic recourse of standing their ground on all fours. Their kin who stuck to the stones stared with eyes that dilated with dry disdain and without even bothering to croak their disapproval, hopped off to hide in the dark of the proverbial hole.