Frog Catching

Frog "Catching"

On this particular day in July, the "in" spot appeared to be the pond past the weeping willows. The sun's blazing rays streaked through the tree segments, capturing my pale skin in an infinite clay oven. I prepared my hands, slippery as a goldfish's glossy scales, and vanished past the lofty grass as mute as a squeak-less mouse. Disappearing amongst the billowing vines, I camouflaged my vivid features against the dull, brownish-green. My gaze fixated on a lily pad marked "the throne of his majesty," There, was seated a humble king, his army green features lying low to his majestic throne. However, the landmark approached the pond's interim, creating a difficult reach from across the mossy bank. Turning my pivot joint, I avoided locking eyes. I felt the sudden urge to lunge at the four-legged royalty, but resisted, knowing this would achieve me no favor. Bursting with hesitation, I emerged from my hideout, cautious as an alert prairie dog. I hesitantly edged toward the disfigured throne, putting all efforts towards invisibility. The shadow of my creeping hands, caused by the slight bending of a hinge joint, evolved his majesty to a midnight black instantaneously, as he broke the serenity of the waters gleaming surface with a leap through its still ripples. I trudged off relentlessly. That superlative summer's day officially became an oxymoron. For as long as I have lived at Three Bay Rum Ct., I have espoused the hobby of frog catching throughout the close quartering ponds. Whenever I needed an escape route, whenever I needed to exit the highway from my afflicts at home, I took advantage of these ponds as a getaway from it all.