Beneath the plum tree, in the grass by my feet, something stirred—grasshopper? I crouched, bent back the clover stalks to find a tiny frog, smaller than the last joint of my little finger, battling with the vegetation, heading north. The nearest stream was fifty yards down the hill, the nearest ditch thirty. How long, I wondered, had this miniscule being’s journey lasted, how long since it embarked on its quest? Where was it going, uphill, north; what was it looking for?

Hundreds of eggs to form scores of tadpoles to form a handful of frogs and perhaps only one, tailless, perfect had survived to set out on a trek that seemed to me to have no sense. I could only admire the dogged determination that drove this tiny creature on, alone, into the boundless jungle of the meadow.

Climbing grass stalks

the moon no further than a

pool of plum…