Lately, Edinburgh's Blackford Hill has been thronging (for those who look very, very closely) with tiny frogs migrating up from Blackford Pond towards—what?—the tall weeds in the higher elevations of the hill, I guess.

They seemed like insects, scurrying on the dirt walk, at the corner of your eye, hiding in their brown skin against the brown earth.

The frogs are so tiny—they fit crosswise on my index finger and I couldn't feel their weight. Yet each one had four hair-thin frog legs, two bulgy eyes, and a throbbing throat. They held utterly still on my finger, except for that underjaw going croak, croak!