I went down to Brindle this week, which I know we are all still meant to keep back from, but I have not been able to think of much else since. When I went down to the footbridge past the reed beds, the shallows were thick with tadpoles, not a hopeful springtime scattering of them but a carpet, the water stirring on its own with the number of them. Additionally, along the bank, all the frogs are dead, grown frogs, hundreds of them, more than I could bring myself to count, lying in the mud and the reeds as though the lake had laid them out on purpose. I don’t know what any of this means but I felt I must let the world know.