Posted by: cannedcumulus | January 26, 2009

the frog of wood

A handmade frog of wood is perched precariously upon my desk’s edge.  Its carvings bear marks of painstaking effort and an engineering mind.  Deep brown in coloring and with fine wood grain texture, it charismatically smiles and stares at me.  Strange ridges run down its back and it sits in a squat, its arms and legs ready to spring into action, propelling it forward in a strong leap.  It holds in its mouth a rod of the same wood grain texture and composition.  I remove it from its place in the frog’s mouth and rub this upon its ridged back.  The quintessential sound of summer emanates from within this statue’s hollow insides; a bright chirping noise with a slight grating, the song of the evening peepers that lull small children to sleep in the country night, their window open to the stars and beyond.  It is almost as if Earth wanted man to remember it, their home planet, when he transcended those great stars of the night sky to achieve his place in the universe, the Earth long since grown too primitive to satisfy his needs.  The sound of those country peepers would remain with him in his head, sounds from his very beginnings: his roots: the sounds of nature.

Night falls on this room, the straggling light of the sun fades from the open window and the previously unnoticeable blue lights lining the decorated walls illuminate this wooden effigy of the frog like those bright celestial lights in the evening sky.  Night falls: and I sit at this desk, admiring the handiwork of the craftsman who fashioned this musical image.  Surrounded by technology, suffocated by its ever-growing presence, this wooden frog stands as a remnant of a lost craft; hand crafted and refusing to bow to new, more “efficient” and godless ways of working.  It sits poised, bathing in the baptizing blue light of the room, ever staring, ever chirping; long after the nearby computer and television blow out and are tossed aside, the frog will continue to stare and chirp its song of nature.

The room fades until there is no light and everything is obscured in darkness.  The room and the tiny wooden frog still exist in the blackness but only as a memory for now, a dream, in my mind and on these pages.

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Responses

  1. you’re so talented :0)

  2. Nice Post – always remember and be mindful of your frog, let it be a reminder of the simplicity we always yearn to return to.


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