It was while making my way out to the old dock, in the early morning hours; walking along an overgrown and damp path; obscured from the world, behind a veil of fog and beneath many a weeping willow; that I heard it. That lonesome croak of a bullfrog; breaking the stillness of the moment, much the way a train whistle does, the dead of night; as it calls out from the distance.
Though hidden from me, I listened with interest; as each croak seemed to be drawn out just a bit more than the last; as I moved slowly and steadily closer to the dock; ever cautious of my footing.
Was he toying with me? I wondered. Maybe he’d finally become accustomed to my returning visits; feeling safe enough to give his approval of my sharing his private location with him. Or was he hurting, as the sound of his croaks led me to believe?
I had heard him off in the distance, many times on prior visits; where his croaks sounded strong and courageous; reminding me of some grand knight, from the pages of history; with sword and buckler thwarting off would-be intruders; but this time his sound was unfamiliar; it wasn’t a proclamation or warning; it sounded sad and tired.
As I continued walking, I noted the direction of his croaks and knew that he was somewhere off to the left of me, amongst the reeds and algae; which, like him, had made the pond their home.
As I arrived at the dock and placed my foot on that first curled and weathered plank; I listened with a renewed interest after the plank let out a groan; for his croaking, hoping to hear it become energized once again; with the realization that I was getting closer. But I heard a dampened thump instead, from somewhere near the end of the dock.
Taking another step, and then another as the boards beneath me announced my rapid progression; I made my way to the end of the dock, where I found him waiting for me.
As he sat there looking up at me, a strange warmth enveloped my chest along with the lump in my throat, one that I knew I could never explain. But it was there. Setting down at the end of the dock next to him, I didn’t know if he’d leave or stay; but with his staying, I guessed, he’d sensed something, too. And, though unable to communicate verbally, it seemed as if we understood each other, and the heaviness of the air, that morning.
With each return visit to the old dock, I look for my tired friend, but I’ve never seen or heard from him since that morning.
But with each venture from the glitz, glamor, and commotion of the world; whether it be to that old dock or somewhere just as remote; I go with the memory of that bullfrog and the others who’ve affected my life; knowing that it is in these quiet and remote places; that I can talk freely to the ones that only I can see.
