Evensong

Do you know what frogs and ducks have in common? If you answered, "They inhabit wetland areas," you would be correct. You would also be correct if you replied, "They squeak."

I walked just before dusk this evening. The earth was damp and the skies refreshed from the torrential downpours of earlier today. (We've so desperately needed this rain. Yes, I live in Washington, and no, I'm not even kidding. This summer has been terribly dry.) It smelled clean and rich, just as a rather fallish earth should smell.

I breathed deeply and contentedly, and that's when I heard the first squeak. A lone female duck flew overhead, and rather than pelt out the traditional quack, quack of her species, I detected a faint, dainty squeak, squeak. I wouldn't have heard it if she hadn't flown so close to my head. I wonder if mallards always make this sound in flight?

As I approached the pond, I heard the giggling and panting of a couple of young girls out for a jog with their mama. Each one smiled at me as she passed and said, "Hi!" It was a seemingly small gesture, but I so often pass people who don't even make eye contact. The uninhibited interactions with these girls were as refreshing as the rain itself.

The pond was pretty quiet this evening. I only saw a few ducks huddled toward the middle, and the rippling activity near the surface suggested that frogs were lurking and ready to snatch up darting insects. This is about when I heard the second squeak. I slowly approached the marshy edge near one particular run-off pipe in hopes of seeing a frog. They move so quickly, however, that I only heard an odd squeak and a splash before the creature dove into the murk, a pale, ghostly figure revealing that yes, I had seen -- and heard -- a squeaky frog.

There's one bend in the path that I particularly love. It's completely surrounded by trees and shrubs, and for a short time it meanders without the intrusion of human structures like homes and fences. Rose hips and berries add a vibrant splash of color to the scene, and I feel as though Peter Rabbit might scamper into view at any moment. Tonight I stood quietly in the middle of this spot, listening to the raspy song of the hummingbird and then the merry warble of the house finch. The finch hopped among the branches of the wild blackberry bushes, and I remained so still that she sang a song or two without detecting me. (Or, if she did, she didn't seem to mind.)

The sun then dipped toward the horizon, a tangerine ball in a swirl of violet, and the finch said goodnight, her blithe evensong ascending in simple, sincere praise.