Yesterday the frogs in the retention pool beside my brother's house were still active. I walked to the edge of the glorified, reed-filled puddle, not expecting to find any sign of life in mid-November, here in the northeast. I was suprised when my approach was greeted by the sound of two big bullfrogs kerplunking into the frigid water like stones.

I made my way down the bank. As soon as my shoes squelched into mud I saw the long damp grass at the edge of pool moving. Small frogs plinked into the water. I spotted a dark shape skittering across a dull green mat of algae.

Curled brown leaves floated on the water's surface. The trees at the edge of the yard were bare. I had thought the frogs would have long since nestled themselves into the muck in anticipation of winter. Maybe our recent run of unusually warm days had awakened some light sleepers.

The sight of frogs in November cheered me considerably. I always like seeing the natural of order of things disarranged.