At 5:40 this morning only a thin spit of light peeked through the eastern sky. But the robins were singing along with the chorus frogs in the marsh behind our house. It is spring here in Illinois.

I did not move very fast the entire run. Just shagging along. Full sweats. 46 degrees. But not cold.

There is a great little road behind our house. It treks through a mile of unincorporated Batavia township. The homes along the road have been there for quite a while. No one really bugs the residents. They can burn logs and paper in piles if they like. One quasi-farm has goats in a pen.A rooster calls as I run by. I raised my hand and wave, at I don’t know what. Waving at the country sounds, I suppose. A slice of country living.

Half a block away in the semi-posh residential area, burning is not allowed. No goats either. It’s a different world. The rooster calls again. Rrr, rrr rrr rrrrh rrrrrhhhhhhhh!. World’s away.

I turn around at half a mile and shag back home. 10:30 pace. Going nowhere in a hurry, you might say. The township road ends and it is time to make a choice between the long way round, which is three miles total, or cut behind the wetland on the levee. I take the levee. Just to hear the frogs. Each one is calling like a little rooster. I run along slowly listening to the absolute voice of evolution. Tiny, half-inch long creatures with ancestors that go back 60M years. Their breeding behavior still works. The males puff up the air sacks under their necks and make a sound like a finger being dragged across the tines of a comb.

But together, with hundreds of them calling at once, the tiny frogs create a chorus of horny little fuckers. They’re like a whole bunch of Austin Powers working their mojo in hopes of shagging a female frog in the cool waters and muck. It’s quite the life, sleeping all winter deep down in the mud. Coming out when the temps warm and the spring rains come.

I shag past thinking similar thoughts. Glad for the chance to be alive. Let the chorus begin where it will. Shagadelic, baby.