March, Fourth Week

The days slip by, seamlessly marking the rhythm of the sun's trail across the sky. To avoid the heat, I have to stay indoors throughout the day, but I love to complete my day with a trip to the pond. The view of the last rays of the sun backlighting the spreading oaks is always a refreshing experience. My mind just pops out of its small self as it beholds the vast wide landscape of trees meadows sky. Tonight the immense backdrop of the meadow is decorated in subtle shades of gold rose lilac—with subtle merging and mingling of these colors.

Every evening I have a unique encounter with some lovely creature. One night a large white egret with long black feet rose to the sky at my approach. I am always disappointed that birds fly away when they sense my arrival. I wish we humans had been kinder to the birds, then surely they would not fear us so.

Another evening, a flock of smaller cranes, five white ones and three gray ones, circle over the pond, then turn back to fly overhead again. As they complete the circle, then turn back to the creek, the dim sunlight catches the bottom of their wings to highlight them in a flash of vibrancy. Every few days a small flock of ducks wings its way overhead, but declines to stop because of my presence. Yet one evening, a wood duck comes swooping by me, heading for the cove at the other end of the pond. I'm convinced its arrival is only to delight me.

Late one evening while I am down at the pond, I am peacefully fishing although I'm not particularly eager to catch a fish. I’m really just biding my time to see if I will get a repeat of last night’s very interesting performance that I have yet to figure out.

Yesterday, just at dusk, I was standing on the dam fishing for my dinner; peacefully casting my line, then reeling it in. Suddenly, I began to hear an unusual noise, an irregular clack. . . clack. . . clack. At first, I thought the sound was coming from my reel, so I looked down to see what was happening to it. At that moment, from behind me came the most clamorous sound imaginable. I surmised that it might be a flock of ducks settling into the trees for the night. Then the clacking at my feet, which obviously was not my reel, sped up. All at once, the entire bull frog population started their gerrumping and croaking. By the time the spring peepers joined the cacophony, the noise was so loud it was completely overwhelming.

I actually had to hesitate a moment to catch my breath, as I was feeling disoriented in the midst of this noisy fanfare. After a few minutes of standing in awe, I went over to investigate the duck sound, which seemed to be coming from behind me. In that instant, every sound stopped. The silence could be heard for miles. I walked over to survey the trees, but I did not see any sign of a duck. In the back of my mind, I was wondering, was that a frog sound?

Tonight I want to be alert in case the scenario is repeated, so I can discern just what is making that strange noise. With my fishing pole, I station myself where I can see the trees, should any birds fly into them. There’s a lot of moss, branches and leaves in the spot I picked to throw my line in, so at least my hook is cleaning the pond of old rotten debris.

While I am waiting, a wonderfully graceful bird starts swooping around the pond, either fishing or looking for insects. He is the size of, and resembles, a nighthawk, so he must be a member of the night jar family. After circling the pond a couple of times, he lands on the log across the pond from me. For identification, I make a note of his low churrrrr sound and his bright white throat. In the dim light, it’s the only distinguishing feature I can discern of the otherwise plain brown bird. However, I make no progress in my investigation of the sound. Although I wait all evening, the strange sound does not repeat.

The next morning when I go out to shower, I discover a special guest awaiting me. Honestly, I’ve always liked frogs. Any frog is great, but tree frogs—they are in a special class by themselves. My first impression of them must have come from a photograph. I was intrigued with their smooth skin and little suction-cup toes.

I'll always remember my first encounter with one while living in India. I was sitting on a porch in a lovely garden with a pool of water lilies, when suddenly, plop, something landed right on my head. While I was startled out of my revelry, the poor frog was jarred into a bit of a shock too. When we recovered, we just sat there staring at each other. “You are a real honest to goodness green web-toed tree frog,” I exclaimed. Being an Indian frog, he was of a patient passive nature, so he allowed me to admire him for several minutes before he quietly plopped away. Later, when I was staying in a rustic setting in the country, I showered with dozens of tree frogs in the stall with me, so I really got my fill of my tree frog thing.

However, those Indian frogs were not colored as bright green as this little Texas variety who is enjoying the mist from my shower this morning. At first he plays hide’n seek behind the shampoo bottle, but the splashing water finally draws him out into the open. Then my movements put him on the alert. Finally, his instincts impel him to hide behind the bottle again.

This delicate creature teaches me that in fact the strange clack, clack racket I heard at the pond was tree frogs. Each evening, he sings his heart out in the shower. Then I begin to hear the songs of the tree frogs chanting from the trees around the house every evening. I always considered only daytime vibrant and full of activity. But as the nights warm up, I am finding the nighttime becoming alive too. Crickets and various other clicking clacking insects join in the frog melodies. The whippoorwill family has moved from the pond up to the inhabited area, so I detect its monotonous call through the darkness of the night. Warm nights to sit out in the fragrant night air—one thing I love about Texas.

One evening just as I reach the pond, I watch a great blue heron flying overhead. One does hang out at the pond, as its tracks are always visible in the mud of the shallow water. Tonight I am not sure if he is trying to fish, or is just gliding by searching for a safe spot for the night. Then I hear the strange noise again. I’ve heard it several times today... The noise is so strange I can’t even begin to describe it; that’s why it catches my attention. Once I thought it was the braying of a donkey; another time perhaps the gerrump of a frog. Then I thought perhaps one of Gary’s cows was sick and bawling. Yet I heard it earlier this evening when I was in the garden. The call seemed to reverberate as if it were moving toward me. Now I’m wondering if the strange sounds were the cries of a heron.

Just because the pond is so lovely, I decide to get out the fishing pole. There isn’t enough light for any more exploring. After fifteen minutes I realize I am not going to have any luck, so I start thinking about what I can cook. The cupboard is nearly empty because I haven’t left the premises in three weeks. One surely can get attached to peace and quiet. I decide my dinner will be potato salad, for I am harvesting a good potato crop from my garden.

Having figured that out, I return to enjoying the pale moments just after dusk, definitely the most mystical time of the day for me—when out of the ashen sky, suddenly the heron comes wheeling in and lands in the tallest oak on the western bank. Not wanting to disturb him, I immediately reel in my line and quietly creep to the shed to put my pole away. The dark silhouette of the heron is clearly visible as I try to make myself invisible as a creep carefully along side the pond.

Walking home in the dark, I admire the stars and allow myself to soak in the pleasant cool night air. Then I see a tiny light ahead of me on the path. There are still lightning bugs in Texas! Honestly, I’ve had a tiny fear that all of us kids who used to catch them and put them in jars to make lanterns had annihilated them. I dance up and down with delight as I watch the firefly gyrate and dart, lighting its way through the somber shadows of the enclosing blackness.

As it flutters over to the woods, I whirl in rapture. A green tree frog, a blue heron, and a firefly have visited me today. These experiences make me happy. This indeed was a day worth being here.