by Katherine Boyer
The bull frogs—strong and strident—a deep throated thrum. No rhythm
to the croaking, just constantly there. I didn’t question their
presence, I just accepted their sounds. Drum, cruck, groattt—
I know what they looked like. Knobby, greenish long legs. I didn’t see
them often as they hid in the mud of the bulrushes in our pond. But
on a summer’s evening I could hear the melodic cacophonous bullfrog
voices melded. Those voices were my singing-to-bed-angels. I heard
the shouts of my parents arguing and I wanted to stop that hearing, so
I read fairy tales until I was too tired, until my flashlight bothered
my sister, until I had read at least three tall tales, all within
the deep croaked voice of Mr. Bullfrog squatting in the warm wet
earth, waiting for morning to come, when he could stop
his calling to the world, his caring of the world, his guardianship of
this our fragile home.