Polly Wogs

I came home with two tadpoles today. Taken from the river this last weekend on my daughter's best friend's camping trip. Both the little guys have already given up the ghost. I'll have to tell Rachel in the morning...

I remember when I was little, we would drive up north to the farms in California and pick fresh Cherries. On our way back home, the station wagon full of overflowing crates, we would stop at this creek to have a picnic of sorts. My adoptive mom wasn't much of a nature fan, so our time was very limited. Us kids would run down to this creek and search for loads of tadpoles. Little black and speckled babies darting under rocks and swimming against the current, just hoping to get away from our probing fingers and toes. I wasn't so much interested in catching them, as watching them swim about. I wondered how long before they would morph into tiny frogs, if they would even make it that far. The thing I liked best, was the feeling of the water rushing over my feet. How cool and cleansing it felt and how the tiny pebbles tickled and poked my feet. I wondered at the old fallen trees that crossed the waters and the ones that still stood so tall. My brother and sister would busily gather as many spawn as they could while calling to me to catch up. I really just wanted to watch them though, the would-be frogs, I didn't want to take them away from their home or do what may shorten their chance for survival. I know, I was a different sort of a child. Not that, that, has changed much...