What followed, on my part, was an unexpected combination of boredom, intrigue and sadness. After three peices of pizza, two pint glasses of water and one long night, I curled up on the carpet in the front room. Dinner was nice. Moving activities supplant others, pulling at surrounding blocks of time. At night, I hear frogs.
Frogs are small and sit in the mud.
Sometimes, frogs site on rocks. When I fall asleep with my window open, it's hard to identify the sound's source. In the afternoon, the peepers' singing intermingles with the voices of robins and insects. When you walk close to the edge of a cranberry bog, the nearby frogs quiet down in response to vibration, waiting for you to pass. As night wears on, the continuous chorus breaks apart into individual voices, sometimes waning to a mere five or seven voices.