Our thoughts are squat frogs sploshing around in the foggy marsh of our minds. A croak here, a croak there, then they disappear into murkiness plopping up later, random and undetermined to splosh and croak some more.

Oh! that they were leaping salmon heading up through swirls and rocky torrents, progressing against currents and foam; the fish and river sparkling in the sun. Achieving at last the quiet pools above, tranquil and purpose filled. The surrounding waters no longer a challenge but a lucid overcoat, a flowing robe.

Is such a metamorphosis possible? Or should we simply wait, croaking, croaking, until the overwhelming flood rolls in, bringing with it all that silver, leaping and shining?

Squat frogs may jump high

But plop, they always return

To squat on the mud.

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