Unseen

We had a foot and a half of fresh snow on the ground on Monday morning last week. By Thursday it was gone and the peeper frogs were singing in the spring down at the pond. After dark I took my camera and a light and went down there to get a picture of the frogs.

At least thats what I thought. Even though the sound of their singing almost hurt my ears, everytime I would get close to one they would feel my steps and drop down into the leaf duff at the bottom of the pond. The most I saw was a dark object sinking into the organic matter, once. I stayed down there til almost midnight, with no luck in finding a single frog.

They act that way as defense against the great blue herons that wade in the pond, hoping to grab one. Perhaps I should take a lesson from the herons and stand real still and wait for the frogs nearby to start croaking again. That might work. I need to have more patience.

On the way home I went over to the old cottonwood and stood beneath the old cottonwood. I could see the quarter moon up to the west, and the stars shining above through the branches.

I have walked on the path beneath this tree with my young daughters. I have held my puppies up against its trunk when I first brought them home. I have heard the winter wind gust through its top, and seen an eagle rest in its branches. I have been beside it when the goldfinch the peeper frogs announce it is spring again, year after year.

And I feel a spirit there, a mystery, accepting and loving and of God. It cannot be seen but I now it is there, as clear as the chorus of frogs over in the pond.