I search for the frog on the apple tree. Surely a better place to hide than the metal gate.
I circle the tree inspecting the craggy bark, the same texture as the frog’s skin. I peer high into the branches, the canopy of leaves turning the light green. I touch the silvery moss, too plush to be a frog. I squat, my knees jutting out on either side of me (like a frog), and poke my head into the yoni hole in the tree’s trunk, a cave of rotting stalactites and stalagmites.
I see the frog again and again, but it is nowhere to be found.
