Take a Stab
Jack and I slide the canoe into Van's Pond as the first nighthawks swoop overhead, wingbeats ruffling like a deck of shuffled cards. Jack is in the bow seat, headlamp on, with a 12-foot cane-pole gig along the right-side gunwale. There's not much additional equipment for our frog hunting expedition. We have an old pillowcase for the frogs, life jackets, and a small cooler of cold drinks. I have a headlamp, too, and a handheld spotlight tied to a thwart in case the boat goes over. I paddle gently, sweeping the big light along the shoreline. Hundreds of spider eyes reflect the light in green constellations. Water striders scatter. There's a muskrat and snakes. Then a pair of yellow beads, unblinking, appears above the frowny face of a frog chin.