Midnight, and the heat of day has eased,
Soothed away by the spring-fed water of the lake.
Silent in our shelter, we lie awake, listening to the dark. Then gradually a throaty thrumming fills the air,
So fundamental it almost makes the willows quake!
The bullfrogs are there in the reeds along the bank,
Shouting their mating songs,
Matching their volume to their motivation.
It is a treat to hear these singers striving
With every ounce of effort they can muster,
Feeling the song at their core of being.
Whole bullfrog worlds revolve around their music,
And the air pulses with their singing,
So strong that when it stops
Part of the night's substance goes away,
Vanished in the void left by the music's absence.
