The scattered islands of the western lakes are home to some strange things. Each isle is its own character, a world, even, battered and shaped by harsh winds and layers of ice-locked winters. In summer the sun drinks away the lake, revealing a new stretch of marshy land, and in autumn the rains return to fill the lake, stealing away a few inches of grass.

Some consider the islands idyllic. In the summer, perhaps, but niche lives and tight spaces make the islands hard places to call home. It’s no surprise that most life here is small, fast, and easily overlooked. Who considers the lives of frogs important? Too few.

But the frogs are just as important as the fox, or the grass, or the mighty pines that cling to the higher ground. I watch and guard all on these islands, and all who visit them, too, be they human tourists, migrating reindeer, or birds pausing in their long journeys to and fro.

You are welcome to stop here, friend. If you come here to hurt my islands, however, I will drive you away with beak and claw, and you will have jolly well deserved it.