I worried a lot about the baby tree frogs.

There were so many in the pond last summer. Fifteen, then 50. Every morning I found newly metamorphosed froglets lounging on the leaves of the pickerel weed.

Each was the size of a fingernail. They had tiny scowls, chubby tums and translucent toes. Most were green as a lime. A few were bronze. In the sun, they shone like gems.

Some dragged tails behind them, long as a train or short as a rudder. I wished they would return to the water and wait. I thought they might bake.

Read the essay in Richmond magazine