illustration by sawyer anderson (@scumbagartist)
walking along a gravel path towards
a red brick building,
hearing sounds emanating
from the shrubs, wailing.
stopping to understand what the racket’s
about. sounds like a baby with a bubble
in its throat. is it frogs?
i’m on this gravel path of mixed up
stones, grey speckled toads
in guttural grass, the cacophony,
a small symphony of speciation.
i can hear it, try to read it, even heed it:
their chorus warnings, a dialogue.
i’m walking and i’m wondering:
if frogs are an indicator species,
maybe they strategize through song,
expressing gratitude to the sun
for another day to try again.
you know that rick and morty episode,
where morty’s got a squirrel translating device?
the squirrels are furious
that a human is suddenly privy
to their takeover plot.
if frog translators were put up for sale
would we finally listen to their perspectives
or oppress them even more?
i’m walking and i know
it’s not a silent resistance on their part—
i heard that from the frogs.