The cattails at the pond kept much of the musical wildlife out of sight. This is acrylic on cardstock.
When I arrived at my front row seat, the sun had already started to set. I looked out across the pond and saw wood ducks preening on low tree branches and splashing in the water. They whistled and called their squeaky two-note squalls. The wind rustled the cattails and the leaves of nearby trees. Red-winged blackbirds sang an array of songs passed down from generations, calling succinct checks and liquid warbles. American bullfrogs joined the chorus. Hidden behind the cattail curtains, they sounded as if they were plucking out-of-tune banjo strings, occasionally punctuating those notes with plops into the water. Their staccato croaks turned into a low, almost creepy, tremulous crescendo that would suddenly stop. It sounded delightfully weird. An unseen cicada loudly let out its staticky trill.
The later it became, the more I heard, and the more I smiled. Lightning bugs began to flicker their lights as if they, too, were concert-goers, waving lighters or lit-up phones during a ballad. The moon became more visible. It was the evening, and it was time to leave. Like any fabulous concert, one does not want it to end. But with these summer nights, concerts can be expected to take place regularly, and most, such as this one, have free admission.