Spring may not have sprung but I’d say it’s definitely crouched back on its haunches and poised to leap into action.
A frog orgy has been going on in the pond in my parents’ garden for the last few days. From a distance, it sounds like a long, low purr, then as you approach, the plop, plop, plopping starts, as the couples dive for cover under a carpet of frogspawn.
Once, it seemed every blade of grass around the pond had its own tiny frog on rainy summer days. But for the last few years, no tadpoles have made it that far. Not since the arrival of the ducks.
They even have their own warning sign on the outskirts of the village near the golf course. It’s a shame the tadpoles don’t realise they should beware of the mallards, too: because before they have time to sprout back legs, they will have been gobbled up.
Last year, my dad put netting over the pond to protect the taddies. It didn’t last for long; the ducks managed to overcome the defences and not a single tadpole survived the siege. It must be futile being a frog.