A Fantasy of Frogs
Rum River, 8:00 pm.
The mating calls of the frogs are metallic, almost mechanical. In the sheltering cat-tails they sing; a sychronised, if somewhat raucous, choir. The air is filled with the scents of mating- water plants, the pheromones of countless animals, insects and bacteria. Life teems. My canoe drifts too close to the reeds; the music stops. Downstream, and on the other bank, amphibial relations take up the slack. Floating with the current, birdsongs provide a melodic component to the symphony. Drifting past a downed locust tree that is half in the water but still alive, its showy flowers dip into the stream, creating tiny ripples. They look like the fringe of a lacy dress, perhaps hanging over a gunwale of a small boat, with a romantic couple inside, enjoying the evening air. The man takes out a ukelele and begins to croon:
Be my love,
For only you can end this yearning,
One kiss is all I need to seal my fate...
And hand in hand,
We'll find love's promised land...
They'll be no one but you for me...
If You will be
The frogs, already aroused, are driven to a frenzy and attack!
The couple are severely gummed, and left covered in slime.
This reverie ends as I realize that I had better start paddling- I've already drifted a mile and the sun is below the tree tops.