The Tragedy of the Frogs

The pond had been there for as long as the frogs could remember. A sanctuary of reeds, still water, and the endless chorus of croaks that echoed beneath the moonlight. Generations had thrived there, their eggs clinging to lily pads, their tadpoles darting through the shallows. It was home.

Then came the rumble.

At first, the frogs didn’t understand. The ground trembled, sending ripples across the water. A shadow loomed over the trees, metal gleaming in the afternoon sun. The oldest among them, a bullfrog with a deep, knowing croak, fell silent. He had seen the signs before—men in boots, stakes driven into the soil, whispers of “development.”

Then, the machine moved.

A monstrous backhoe, its steel arm slicing through reeds, its bucket scooping away the bank in massive, careless bites. Mud and water sprayed into the air as the earth was torn apart. The frogs leapt, desperate to escape, but there was nowhere to go. Each scoop swallowed more of their world, burying them in wet soil, crushing them beneath its weight. Their croaks turned to silence, their sanctuary reduced to a pit of broken roots and churned-up water.

When the machine left, the pond was gone.

A single frog, caked in mud, blinked at the ruins of his home. He tried to call out, but no one was left to answer.