Torchie the frog truly expected to die. The oil was coming in around him, enveloping his little bog where he ate crickets and listened for mates responding to his croaks. He'd noticed a severe decline in available foods. Flies and mosquitoes and crickets offspring grow much faster than his own babies will or would have if not for the impending disaster.
The drop off of his own supply of food either meant something was wrong with the water or the insects themselves or both. He could smell the oil.
Ribbit, ribbit Torchie croaked. He didn't hear a response.
Where were the available snacks that Torchie loved? The oil probably choked the life out of the insects babies.
The oily sheen on the water, reflecting the setting sun, broke the light into rainbows of colors. Encompassing death was beautiful he thought, in some ways.
If he dove into the water and tried to move to another spot he could only swim so far before he would have to come up for air. It would hurt his skin and get into his mouth and nose. Maybe he could swim to the bottom of the little off shore pool and the oil would go away? He laughed at the silliness of the idea.
The sunset sure is beautiful, he croaked aloud, one last time.
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