A frog suddenly appeared on one of the stones that lined a pond reflecting the orangey hues of surrounding autumnal foliage. The frog disappeared as quickly and abruptly as it had arrived.
The bird feeders outside the nature center’s windows are occupied by a frenzy of woodpeckers, chickadees, goldfinches, nuthatches, and so many more fluttering feathered beings. Squirrels take the liberty of picking up fallen seeds on the ground alongside mourning doves and dark-eyed juncos. My attention is very much absorbed in the birds’ and squirrels’ whereabouts, but I do notice someone else.
Right in front of one of the windows and at a slight distance away from all the feeder activity is a small pond lined with flat stones, and on one of those stones is a frog. Shiny with dampness, the frog must have just gotten out of the pond. Its stillness in posture aids a resemblance of a small rock that could be easily overlooked. I look away, watch the birds and squirrels some more, look back, and the frog is gone. In its place on the flat stone is a damp spot, a subtle reminder of its aquatic inclination and the ease of transition between water and land that the frog embodies.