In the evening, when passing by the Civic Square, I heard a chorus of frogs. "Croak - croak - ribbit ribbit", one starting and one responding, all harmonizing.
Approaching the wooden bridge. That bridge is curved like a new moon, spanning diagonally across the river. The street lamps near and far emit a soft light, along with the cobblestone-paved path, as gentle and picturesque as a painting. The frogs are lurking here, as if holding a nocturnal concert, undulating continuously like overlapping waves.
The ears are filled with the suddenly drum-like croaking of frogs, but the heart has flown to the hometown.
That is a seaside village as beautiful as brocade in all four seasons. In the hot summer, adults are sweating in the fields, while we play freely, going wherever we want.
Frogs are also loyal partners. From the small, dark ones in spring to the lean and green ones in summer, from ponds to rivers, whether silent or exuberant, they are all good scenes. We crouched down, following their footprints. Unconsciously, spring and summer have passed.
Rainy days are when the frogs are extremely active.
Frogs are the messengers of the Thunder God. Just as the saying goes, "When frogs croak, rain is coming". They are crying and singing passionately, using their high-pitched songs to welcome the arrival of rain. The cool rain is splashing on the earth, with a swishing sound, seemingly chorusing with the frog cries. I have run barefoot in the rain many times, and from time to time, several frogs would pass by under my feet. Ribbit, ribbit, they quickly draw shallow arcs in the grass and in the blink of an eye, they dive into the pond.
The pond is not monotonous. It is surrounded by taro and sedge, and there are duckweed and lotus inside. Both the taro leaves and the lotus leaves are large and round, becoming the happy haven for frogs in rainy days. Under the green leaves and the green frogs, what a harmonious picture!
After the passing shower, the world is fresh and clear, and the wind carries the fragrance of plants. The water plants at the bottom of the pond surge up, and the dense duckweed ripples gently with the water flow. The whole pond is like a huge face, filled with countless opening and closing mouths. As for the frogs, after resting in the rain, they are full of vitality. They stare with their eyes wide open, open their mouths, and start a concert. "Ribbit ribbit - ribbit -", singing vigorously. There is also the dynamic insect-catching performance, with their four legs tensed, locking onto the target, ready to attack at any time. After catching the food, they give a satisfied "ribbit", with their cheeks puffing up and down, and their soft bellies also quivering. Those sounds are intertwined, sometimes long, sometimes short, continuous. When we have heard too much, we will also push our tongues against the palate to imitate frog cries. Unfortunately, no matter how much we practice, the sound always seems thin.
I have also seen gray little frogs in the setting sun, which are said to be native frogs. They are so small, only as big as my thumb. The whole body is earthy gray, mixed in the soil, and if not looked closely, it is impossible to tell. I lay prone by the side of the road, under the afterglow of the setting sun, and watched them jump little by little. They don't call either, just keep hopping silently, very much like the constantly splashing mud spots.
When frogs are imprisoned, they will make shrill and helpless cries. My father once caught frogs, more than half a bag. Through the tightly tied bag, what we heard was not "ribbit" but "coo". At that time, adults seemed to treat frogs as the food in the fields and could be freely bought and sold. But we feel sorry! Unable to bear seeing those bloody scenes, we pulled at our father and didn't allow him to hurt the frogs any more. Father couldn't resist and finally gave up that half bag of frogs.
Later, father started raising bullfrogs. The four sides and the top of the pond are covered with nets, combined with lights and other things, so that a suitable environment can be regulated. Father is busy from dawn to dusk, and even in thunderstorm days, he tries every means to dig earthworms for them to eat. The bullfrogs live comfortably and often sing in groups. The sound is deep and loud, like a cow mooing. That year, there was a bumper harvest of bullfrogs.
Xin Qiji once wrote, "Amid the fragrance of rice, we talk of a good harvest and listen to the frogs singing". Although the hometown does not grow rice, there are abundant waters and the frog cries are continuous. Generations have depended on it, hurt it, and finally choose to take care of them. Frogs are the guardians in the farmland. Children have always loved to watch them jump freely and lightly, and love to listen to their full and passionate singing.
No matter how old we get, we are willing to listen to the beauty. The frog cries are undoubtedly the most authentic sound of nature!