The frog sat in a puddle by what passes for a path at the fringe of a forgotten swamp. It was a dry day, but a few skips were still needed to ford the weedy brooks that criss-crossed the clearing and threatened to trap the soles of the heedless. A broken bronzeback basked by a bar of botanical bounty. Scarlet libellulids darted over the pipewort and leafless sedges that grow in the shade of a terentang tree.
Small, flat and nigh invisible against the sandy bottom, the frog gave itself away with a twitch and hop that alerted me to its presence. But almost immediately, it vanished anew amid a scene of pale grains and dark blades that dissolved the tell-tale form of an amphibious tetrapod. It took a slow glance and tight squat to relocate the tiny beast in its shallow hide. And there it probably remained until the day grew cold and cleared the stage for a chorus of inflamed passions. Theirs is a perilous serenade, for the rash actions of blinkered hearts loom too close for comfort and herald a future where a hostile faith sees no difference between frogs from faraway and those that belong here and nowhere else.
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