Most springs just before dusk, on a random lovely evening we all tumble into the vehicle driving a short distance away. The car waits on the side of the road as we amble along an unofficial park trail veined with bumpy aging roots, old acorns and leaves left from a season past. To the left there is an old stone foundation, crumbling and hidden in the overgrowth, and just beyond that is a swampy bog that looks particularly murky at dusk. As we draw nearer, the sound becomes almost unbearable. I want to cup my hands over my ears to muffle the call, but then I remember why we are here. We are the audience. It seems that all the male peepers of the world congregate in this one spot to call for a mate. We have come to witness this chorus of mighty peepers.
Sadly, our teenagers have seemingly outgrown this tradition, however, in a few years I‘m certain that they will remind us that it is time to listen to the peepers. I’m counting on it.