Last night when I went to feed the outside cats, I saw the tiniest frog on the steps. How can something so miniscule be alive? It was barely the size of the nail on my little finger.
It's so easy to get caught up in the busy-ness of it all and the external measures of things . . . when there is incredible beauty all around us, that just is for its own sake and can't be measured except in that way. Soon I'll have time to try to look up what kind of a bitty frog it was.
Meanwhile, here's a nice stress-reliever of a frog poem, by one of my favorite authors, Anonymous:
What a wonderful bird the frog are!
When he stand he sit almost;
When he hop he fly almost.
He ain't got no sense hardly;
He ain't got no tail hardly either.
When he sit, he sit on what he ain't got almost.