As much as I don’t belong here, I do. Back where I grew up, during a light summer rain, frogs used to get run over by cars in the street in front of my house. Sometimes I’d trot out to the asphalt to look at the smear left behind. Each frog, like a spoonful of green bean casserole, made flat as a Communion wafer. After a full day in the sun, they were as brittle as a Communion wafer too. The frogs that got run over on Eden Drive were wood frogs. If you spend the night outside in the Northern Neck, maybe you’ll hear them creaking around a pond or some backwoods vernal pool. It’s different in the winter. The wood frog can stay alive while half of its body is frozen. Eyes closed. Pulse at zero. Quiet as ice.