My name is Finnegan the Frog and I live by a pond. I’m happy there. I have everything I need. I snack on flies, moths, crickets and slugs. I bask in the sun. I nap in the shade. I like to watch ducklings and goslings grow up and swim with their mamas. I like to watch people who come to watch the ducklings and goslings.

The problem is the other frogs. They gripe about the mud, about the ducks and geese making a mess, and about the frogs they don’t like. But mostly, they gripe about frogs who become princes. It doesn’t happen often, but every few years, a princess comes by, kisses a frog, and POOF, he turns into a prince. Then he goes off with the princess to live happily ever after.

The other frogs dream endlessly about becoming a prince.

I have my doubts about the happily ever after part. I’ve heard rumors that some of the princes long for the pond and the good old days of catching crickets with their buddies. They’re tired of wearing itchy clothes, uncomfortable crowns and having to mix and mingle with fancy folks all day.

And they really miss the mud – the oozy, squishy, wondrous mud.

I, on the other hand, am completely happy living by the pond. Every time a princess comes by, I run for the reeds and hold very still until she passes by.

Truth be told, I only have eyes for one very special frog. Florina is shy and mostly stays on the other side of the pond. I leave bugs for her as small tokens of my affection. I wink and smile with beguiling charm. In a remarkable display of athleticism, I even swim backstroke across the pond. I know that one day I’ll win her over with my impressive ribbits and croaks, my superb hops and leaps and my aforementioned positive attributes.

It’s clear to me there will never be a princess as fine as my dear Florina, nor a place any better than the glorious pond I call home. A place where I can be the very best frog I ever hoped to be.

TIME HOLDS NO SWAY

The dust is thick,

hanging in the air
with persistent hesitation,

wielding a heavy hand,
it weighs down dry, thirsty brush,

a lazy sun masks the horizon,
using brushstrokes of rusted amber,

nothing moves
except a lone giraffe
on a well-worn path
in no hurry to disturb
this languid space,

time holds no sway over this land,

each dawn cracks open
in anticipation
of another South African day
where the rhythms beat slower,
resonate lower,
hold mysteries closer,

a world apart,
yet a part of the same vast world
we walk.

Photo by Annalies Corbin taken at Kruger National Park, South Africa
See more of Annalies’s photography at: https://annalies-corbin.pixels.com/
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