Ribbit!

Blind as a bat. And a great, lumbering, noisy disturber of the peace, to boot. That's what I must be.

Saturday afternoon, we walked down to Cougar Creek Park again. We came in the back way, from behind the protecting belt of trees.

Cougar Creek lagoon

The beaver had been hard at work, opening up the view. I threaded my way down the bank to see what could be seen on the pond. As soon as I stepped out from the shade, a half-dozen or so frogs plopped into the water. I stopped there, and looked for more, but there was nothing but mud and slimes.

Can you see a frog there? I don't see a frog.

I took another step; another contingent of frogs hit the water. I stood stock still and surveyed the mud more closely. No more frogs.

Another step, another batch of plops. More, this time, farther afield. I aimed the camera at a patch of mud which obviously had no frogs on it, took a tiny step, and ... plop! plop! plop! And I didn't even see them go; just the empty widening circles in the water.

Laurie joined me, and we both looked. We saw no frogs, although we managed to startle another dozen or so. I tried to sneak up on them, farther down the bank. No luck; they saw me or heard me. I didn't see them.

Nor did they show up in any of my photos. Either they were invisible frogs, or they're masters at camouflage.

We rested our eyes, looking at things that actually could be seen:

Assorted ducks, mallards, wigeons and cross-breeds.


Widening circle. With duck.


Deep blues, green greens. Sleepy ducks.


Dying leaves.


Rose hips, fattening up for winter.


Reflection on the water. Frame it, and it's a painting.

We walked home, well content. But next time, I'm tiptoeing down that bank.
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