There are performances seldom related in art books and unwitnessed in theaters, but are regularly enacted each night on marshes amid frogs, uncovering no less beauty: frog ballet.
There are no spotlights, just the wash of the moon itself over rippling water, no more silk costumes, only the sheen of dew that moistens the green skin.
These frogs do not dance to applaud the humans; rather they are moving to the rhythm of nature itself. Their jumps are surreal, not random but rather quite naturally and benevolently emassed in patterns as if accidentally gimped by an invisible set of hands. A rising crescendo of croaks becomes their many-parted orchestra, and popping beats of croaks, too, create an aggravating but enjoyable symphony. This one decides to jump left, the other runs for the hills—while the other shadows remain frozen, mid-leap and mid-dance with eye-catching lines that recall images of the pose.
To biologists, such movement is courtship, boundary display, or instinctive survival tactic. To the creative eye, they could also be considered living poetry: an artless, ancient soul welling from the bowels of the dirt, with water and star glow for a backdrop.
Humans, suckered by grand stages, must forget that true dances can happen randomly in the wilderness. Frog ballet underscored the assertion that beauty need not have applause but may instead be heard whispering back through the night.