The frogs are back. They started singing in March, same as the last two years, and the pond greeted five or six of them — sometimes closer to ten when I count carefully and they cooperate by holding still. The chorus comes from everywhere and nowhere at once; you can stand right next to a frog and not see him.

They mate, lay eggs, and most of them quietly vanish. A few stragglers stick around to keep singing as it warms up, which I appreciate. By mid-April the pond is dense with tadpoles, and the next month is the slow magic of watching legs appear. First the back ones, like little afterthoughts. Then the front ones. Then they’re frogs.

Roadie also notices this. Roadie is my cat, and his interest in the pond is not philosophical. He stalks the edge. He gets yelled at. He pretends not to hear me. He gets sprayed with the hose often. Once the new frogs start emerging, fully formed, pinkie fingernail-sized small, I’ve caught him lying by the water with one paw delicately dipped in, scooping them out and into his mouth. I love my cat. He is also a disgusting creature. Both things are true.

The best part comes later, when the survivors disperse into the garden. The first year they moved into the zinnias. Last year they preferred the lettuces. I’d part the leaves to pick and find a frog looking up at me, unimpressed. They are not fans of the hose. When I water the vegetable beds, they come boinging out from under every leaf, deeply put out.

The colors are something else. Browns, tans, gold, green, and a few that look like someone splashed paint at them on purpose. Variegated little things, no two alike.

Three drowned females this year. The males hang on for a long time during mating, and the females have to keep diving and coming up for air. Sometimes the exhaustion wins.

Nature doesn’t have any empathy. I try my damnedest to mitigate the damage so I can enjoy them all summer. I’m grateful they choose my backyard to call home each year.