A silver frog, a frog whose skin seemed to have absorbed all the madness of the Mexican moon. ~Roberto Bolaño
Once upon a time, many years ago in the Spring of ’91, I was leaving Arches National Park at night because I could not bear to say goodbye while the rocks were visible. I left via the northern route, the unpaved northern road at a snail’s pace, all four windows down enjoying the slight chill in the air, the desert smells still drying out from a flash storm, letting the evening sounds wash over me when I came to a small, shallow pond where I heard a chorus of frogs singing in a sexual frenzy, fighting to mate before the dwindling pond evaporated in the driest of atmospheres and then buried themselves in the dark mud where the would estivate until the next rainfall.
This one Spring night held them in salvific embrace while they copulated in a hysteria blinding them to my giant presence and the footsteps nearly crushing them at the edge of the receding waters.
I sat silently on the red dust floor, full moon at my back thinking the moonlight reflecting off their backs appeared to be tiny, shimmering stars against a black sky, a sky rippling silver in the short-lived ringlets created when the frogs, sometimes two, three at a time, fought over a female disturbing the otherwise placid pond.
And I cursed god to hell that I had no woman with whom to join the frogs in primordial ecstasy on the desert floor beneath the glow of the full moon.