A Night of Silver Ripples
The marsh stirred under the glow of a swollen moon, its surface shimmering like polished glass. Frogs of every size and shade emerged from their hiding places—tree frogs sliding down bark, bullfrogs lumbering from muddy banks, and tiny chorus frogs hopping across lily pads like scattered raindrops. The Night of the Silver Moon came only once every decade, and even the insects seemed to pause in reverence.
At the center of the marsh sat Grindlehop, the ancient frog whose croak could shake reeds from their stalks. He perched on a lily pad so wide it could have been mistaken for a raft. His eyes, golden and wise, scanned the gathering crowd.
“Tonight,” he announced, “we sing the Song of Still Waters.”
The young frogs buzzed with excitement. Among them was Pip, a small green frog with a voice that cracked like a twig underfoot. He dreamed of joining the Marsh Chorus, though every attempt at singing had sent other frogs diving for cover. Still, he hoped the moon’s magic might help him find his place.
