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I have a strange and wonderful hobby.
The lights above the frog tank come on at 6:43 AM. I’m usually awake by then, on the floor of my room doing stretches—the sudden flare of brightness is a welcome end to the exercise. I lean over to look through the tank’s glass door. Behind it there is a tiny frog peeping his head up out of a bromeliad axil. Used to he’d sing in the mornings for his mate, but since a bacterial infection took her away he’s been quiet, quiet. I wonder if frogs grieve. “Hi there,” I whisper. His throat puffs and wibbles. He watches me get dressed. His children flit through the tank’s leaf litter like little red jewels.
