There is a tire-rutted road behind the barn on campus, which fills with water in the spring. The frogs think it's Plato's Retreat, New York City in the 70s.
I came across a couple, so entwined that even when I frothed the water with a stick, they just blinked.
I came back a few days later, and the pool was filled with tadpoles, like toddlers in the sandbox. I brought an empty yoghurt container, scooped some up, took them home to a makeshift aquarium and have spent the last week stupefied by their transformation before my eyes. O Nature! O captain my captain! There must also be some kind of plan for me, I hope, also to grow, and to change?
The tadpoles have gone from looking like sperm in that 70s movie The Miracle of Life, to now - when they have a noticeable spine, and are sprouting leg buds. I got a booster shot of nerdliness, spending a hour looking at them while the kids were in school with a magnifying glass, in the sunlight. I said to myself, I'm like Jane Goodall of frog spawn.
Appreciate. It's a miracle. A mundane, tire-rutted road miracle, same as we all are, but none the less.