Dark. Then lighter, a cream-coloured dawning. Rising warmth.
Cool and greenly bubbling, the water sways. The morning brushes the top of the reeds. The clouds stretch, dissolving into the background of the sky.
The frog stirs. Life is waking in his belly. He blinks, tracing the minute shivers and ripples inside him. He flicks out his tongue; tastes. The sour ripeness of Spring reaches him. He blinks again.
Through the gloom, a gleam fades in and out. His eyes focus. A faint shimmering slenderly slips through the water, among the murk and the slime. A chink of light, a slip of something beautiful. The frog moves.
And something moves in him; rumbling, the urge of frogs past, the drive for future frogs, ancestors and offspring, conspiring to steer him on, forward, towards.
He kicks his legs. He is curious now, awoken by the return of impulses long-since unfelt. But remembered. His eyes widen. A longing burns. He kicks harder.
The weed drifts beneath him, tickling his belly as his swims. Ahead, the glimmer brightens, flickers, leading him closer. The sudden impression of scaly skin beneath his fizzes through him.
A moment. A shaft of sunlight catches a golden tail. The frog is frozen, caught in his yearning. She is perfect. He is hers.
Propelled by desire, by craving, he kicks again, swimming, reaching, grasping; his froggy limbs seize her with the power of all of his will, all of his wish and all of his hope.
He clings.
Her eyes blink.
She wriggles. She squirms. She flails. But he holds her tightly. He is certain.
The light starts to fade behind her eyes. She remembers the feel of water passing her by, a gulp of air, cold. It is all growing dimmer. She gently shudders. And then she is still.
He clings. He has found her. He will not let her go. He clings.
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