Archives for posts with tag: frogs

One sure way to know that the weather is getting cooler: the nights are quieter. No crickets, no cicadas, no frogs. Nothing that goes chirp in the night (except smoke detectors in need of new batteries).

Things that go bump in the night are another story…

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When you’re a gardener, it’s reassuring to know that you have friends.

Friends such as earthworms (the worms crawl in, the worms crawl out, the worms play pinochle on your snout…).

Not to mention the pollinators, by which I mean mainly the bees.

Also nice—and quite beautiful—are the butterflies and hummingbirds.

Frogs are friends of the garden as well; they eat plenty of harmful insects.

And then there are dragonflies. I’m not sure if they are beneficial or merely benign but they’re not harmful, definitely. Also, they are curious and always seem genuinely interested in whatever I am doing.

It is the first day of fall (by some, but not all, reckonings; see June 25, 2013) and the weather shows it.  It was rainy and blustery last night, cool and damp this morning.  The frogs, apparently in denial, still swim around the pool but with grimaces on their faces.  The water is cold.  It has been too cold for me lately, too.

There are many, many cherry tomatoes on the Sungold and Black Cherry vines, most of them green.  And most of them have been falling off with each raw gust of wind.  The Sungolds in particular do not enjoy this cooler weather.  Even the tomatoes that turn the characteristic brilliant shade of yellow are about half the diameter of their peak-season counterparts.

In fact, I’m a bit worried about the Sungold vines.  They seem to be infected with some type of disease.  First the leaves, then the stems, and finally the tomatoes themselves turn a sickly shade of brown.  It is an eerie effect, not unlike the moon eclipsing the sun and casting the daytime world into a gloomy twilight.  Unfortunately, it is not a condition that is likely to pass as quickly (or at all).

Around here, the Dog Days of August are preceded by the Frog Days of July.  Early in the month, the amphibians begin to appear in and around the pool.  At first, there are only one or two but by mid-month, their numbers have increased to about a dozen or so.

Most of them are a smaller variety (leopard frogs?), just over an inch long when sitting.  They spend a lot of their time floating at the water’s surface with their limbs extended in a kind of dead man’s float (frogs don’t have necks so they can’t float with their faces in the water).  Often, they are drawn into the skimmers where frequently I find them swirling around in a daze.

When this occurs, I pull them out of there and shoo them into the grass, hoping they will find another body of water to call home.  It is a futile gesture, however, and they almost always return.  Sadly, these small fry end up doing a dead frog’s float after succumbing to the chlorine in the water.

The remaining frogs, of which there is never more than a few, are the larger American bull frogs.  They grow to a size of four to five inches long when sitting—and sit they do.  And sit, and sit, and sit (just like T.S. Eliot’s Gumbie Cats).  They will eventually take a short dip in the water or dive to the bottom for a spell or even take a ride on one of the floating canisters that hold chlorine tablets.  Unlike their smaller cousins, the bull frogs can jump out when they want to and seldom get caught in the skimmers (although it does happen; see September 25, 2011).

At any given moment but especially in the evenings just after dark, two or three of them can be found perched at the edge of the pool deck, pondering the great blue depths of the water.  Sometimes they sing to each other and other times they sit quietly, simply enjoying (it seems) each other’s presence.  Not our presence, though:  When we approach for a late night swim, they squeak testily and hop away.

For the last week, there has just been one bull frog in attendance (well, I think it is the same one), joining us for our pre-bed skinny dip.  This seems to be the case every year and I assume that he (or she, as the case may be; how does one tell?) has chased the others away and claimed our pool as his exclusive province.  Consequently, I call this lone survivor Ol’ Boss Frog (anyone else read Walt Kelly’s Pogo?) and give him his proper respect.

We’ve been very fortunate this year to have two featured players in the local orchestra that produces the sounds of nature.  The concerts occur daily but the new musical artists are appearing for a limited time only.

Since the beginning of June (see May 31, 2013), we have had a daily serenade from the 17-year cicadas.  They start just as the sun rises above the mountain ridge to the east, about seven o’clock this time of year.  I’m not sure whether it is the direct sunlight (the trees are in the shade until that hour, after which they become illuminated from the top down) that gets the cicadas going or the increase in ambient temperature that accompanies it (they are very sensitive, thermally).  Either way, their tune is our audible signal that the day has begun.

Once cued, they keep at it diligently throughout the full-sun hours and do not take a rest until the sun lays down its baton on its final approach to the horizon, at around seven o’clock in the evening.  That’s twelve hours of continuous music-making, every day.  Despite its similarity to sci-fi special effects, the melody—bass continuo might be a more apt term—is comforting.  It is a love song, after all.  We will miss it when it comes to an end.

Starting at about the same time each morning, birds perched in the weigela and forsythia that form a hedge between our yard and the road begin a complex aria of some of the most exuberant birdsong I have ever heard.  I suspect that there are several bird families nesting within the shrubs’ dense foliage and based on the energetic and animated chirping, warbling and trilling, they must be very proud parents indeed.  I’m not sure what species they are but these divas would put the fanciest canary to shame.

Like the cicadas, the birds carry on all day and sometimes into the evening (unlike the cicadas, they must not be unionized).  It is only when the sun is completely below the horizon and the sky has become fully dark that they tuck the little ones in and settle into bed.  Shortly after that, the orchestra now quiet, we do the same.  (When the crickets and frogs start their summertime gigs next month, I’m not sure we’ll know when to go to sleep.)

For the last week, we have been wondering where the tree frogs have gone.  The hot, still nights have been silent and when we have taken a swim before bed, we have had the pool to ourselves.  Have they been on vacation?  Annoyed by the hot, dry weather?  Did we do something to offend them?

Then, yesterday evening, after a pre-fireworks thunderstorm (one of the most intense we have had in a while), they were back.  By the time the storm had blown out and the first flash-bangs of the village’s Fourth of July show began to explode, four of the little amphibians had taken up their positions around the pool and were loudly comparing notes on their vacation travels (or whatever other mischief they had been up to).  It was nice to have them back.