Burning Bridges Like Matchsticks

I skiied down this road two short months ago, and now I drive along it; windows open, ears straining. My muffler is badly in need of replacement and so I stop every few hundred yards, turn off the engine and sit, listening for the trill of amorous frogs. At the second marshy patch along the roadside, my headlights shine on an oily patch of darkness crouched on the shoulder. Slow moves as I try to ready the camera, but as I raise it, he slips away into the cold water and cattails. I will park behind a copse a quarter mile away, wander the darkness till I've judged it long enough for him to forgive my interruption. I will find nothing but a channel of bent leaves and parted stems next to a half gnawed poplar branch.