Imagine you are camping in the mountains, as the evening air grows crisp and darkness sets in you hear the distant howl of a coyote. The chirp of crickets clicking their wings fills the night as mosquitos dance around your fading campfire. As a choir of toads begin to croak in perfect harmony you are increasingly aware you are only a visitor in this nocturnal world. As you drift off to sleep one voice rises above the rest, it is a tiny neon green tree frog perched on top of rock reciting a limerick. 

 

If we could understand the language of frogs croaking imagine the poetry they would share.

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K Emory Taylor