The Philosofrog
In a quiet corner of a humble lot park, nestled in a ripple-worn pool beneath a miniature cascade, I found this little green thinker. Half submerged, half sublime, he sat perfectly still, as if composing amphibious haikus or pondering the trajectory of dragonflies. The light was soft, the stream was hushed, and for a moment, time itself paused to see what he’d say next.
He said nothing, of course—just blinked with ancient wisdom and let the water speak instead.
In a quiet corner of a humble lot park, nestled in a ripple-worn pool beneath a miniature cascade, I found this little green thinker. Half submerged, half sublime, he sat perfectly still, as if composing amphibious haikus or pondering the trajectory of dragonflies. The light was soft, the stream was hushed, and for a moment, time itself paused to see what he’d say next.
He said nothing, of course—just blinked with ancient wisdom and let the water speak instead.
In a quiet corner of a humble lot park, nestled in a ripple-worn pool beneath a miniature cascade, I found this little green thinker. Half submerged, half sublime, he sat perfectly still, as if composing amphibious haikus or pondering the trajectory of dragonflies. The light was soft, the stream was hushed, and for a moment, time itself paused to see what he’d say next.
He said nothing, of course—just blinked with ancient wisdom and let the water speak instead.