Looking from the highway, these are the railroad tracks and Marina Way, with the pond beyond the willows and red-osier dogwood. The next morning I walked down to catch the bus. There were about 60 dead frogs on the road. The cars so quickly obliterated them it was hard to get an accurate count. The air had a fish smell I’ve learned to find sorrowful. We would be frog butlers till almost April. 2014, the first year of the great Harborton Northern red-legged frog roundup was a rousing success, at least as far as the humans were concerned.
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Well, they were, but they’re hard to understand, though the chatter coming from the buckets sounded an awful lot like complaining.