Drove up to the house late tonight in the warm dark rain. Toads of all sizes hopped in my headlights and I wove to avoid the stiff-shouldered crawlers and the spread-eagled splat. It was an amphibian slalom for my shock-worn death wagon.
On the porch, in the moist pitch dark, their voices rose around me. I have not heard that sound in oh so long.
I think every toad in the county was on the road tonight. I started counting but I ran out of numbers. Little tiny ones that mirrored raindrops when they jumped and big orange ones the color of the mud from which they crawled. Where are they all going, these squat, hormone-driven, headlight-facing little creatures compelled out of the snow and into the spring?