Several weeks ago, in the midst of a torrential cold rain, we noticed a spring peeper clinging to one of our French doors with its tiny suction cup toes. We were thrilled to see it– spring peepers are such elusive little amphibians and rarely make such appearances– but we held out little hope for it. As the rain rapidly turned to sleet and snow, the spring peeper disappeared. During a wet spring years ago, my husband took our son on a spring peeper hunt. They slogged through muddy ponds and streams for hours and, although they heard hundreds of spring peepers, they never actually saw a single one. Spring peepers are tiny (only an inch and a half), definitely shy and rather magical.
Tonight, as I walked out onto our deck, the chorus of spring peepers was deafening– their own wild and dissonant rite of spring. It seems impossible that such a tiny creature could create so huge a din, but the search for a mate clearly demands fortissimo. And their chorus bursts with the joy of the evening, of spring, of life, of the coming rain. The music is electric, and, even for a short time, the listener can’t help but share the optimism of the peepers as they announce that it’s spring– it’s really spring! And, unlike the groundhog, the spring peepers are never wrong!