The Swell of Spring

Last night, the brave, lone peeper sang confidently out of tune. His notes echoed through the damp spring air. It didn’t matter if he made mistakes, only that he sang with passion. I abandoned the urge to applaud, knowing that he would stop, robbing me of the joy of his long-awaited ballad.

I admire him, and I understand the significance of showing up before others congregate, filling the senses with a cacophony of the wildest, deepest strains to fall upon one’s ear.

Today, the others came, and he became lost in the swell of spring. I searched each tree stump until I found one without a crop of mushrooms or moss, and I sat. The last note, a simple melody, merged into a half dozen rings, to resonate and ripple towards the shore, diminishing into glorious solitude. I turned my face upwards, taking in the sun.

Something tickled my leg. I was pleased to discover a newly hatched Grote’s sphinx moth. The wing pattern is similar to the monarch design—enough to uphold in adversity—carefully woven into the edge of each small, fuzzy wing.

Together, we listened as the frogs began to sing. I cringed at the thought of my new friend becoming a tasty morsel. No one should drive a bargain such as that.

It wasn’t until I decided to leave, that the moth perched on my finger—unrivaled by any other jewel. The song, the trust, and the beauty are imprinted, tucked away for another time.