Late last Friday afternoon I was still at work in the office, waiting for the 5 o’clock whistle to sound.
It turned out to be a lovely spring day. Over lunch I had managed to slip out for a short visit to a local book store.
One of my patients had given me a voucher for a reading program that his school was sponsoring. Over a three-day period the Barnes & Noble book store had agreed to contribute 10% of each purchase to this special program to send books to students in Uganda. I ended up buying The Shack and Three Cups of Tea, both of which I’d been meaning to read for quite some time; and so contributed $3.20 toward the Uganda project.
As I sat in the back office by an open window, looking out over the expanse of wetland cloaked in bare white birches and young maples, a cacophony of spring peepers erupted. Trebles from spring song birds periodically punctuated the frenzied crescendo.
Overhead, the sky provided a faultless blue canopy for the performance. Although lingering patches of snow had disappeared over the course of the past two weeks, the woods still seemed to be wintering over: bare trunks and grey branches, brown leaves, cinnamon sand.
Momentarily, the peepers died down to a few isolated chirps, then once again welled up into a feverish frenzy. I sat back and closed my eyes, meditating on their orchestral orations.
I look forward to the appearance of these little frogs each year. Their song ignites in me a certain undefined hope that heralds the coming of spring.