Happy Hopper 🐸

Happy Hopper – A Spring Story

Frog did not rush. He emerged precisely when the conditions were ideal—slightly overcast with a high chance of golden sunbeams breaking through the pines. He adjusted his satchel, polished a spot on his handlebars, and declared (to no one), “Perfect weather for floral composition.”

His route was well-considered: a stretch of trail known for early bloomers and tasteful wildflower clusters. He passed several blossoms without pause, shaking his head softly. “Too obvious.” But then—a delicate spray of violets peeking from beneath a log. Subtle. He approved. Into the basket they went, arranged with care and exactly the right amount of asymmetry.

As he pedaled, he hummed to himself—a tune he claimed was improvised but actually rehearsed. He stopped frequently, not because he was tired, but because, as he would say, “Observation is an art.” He admired the curve of moss on a stone, critiqued the composition of a mushroom cluster, and once turned his nose up at a daffodil that he deemed “aggressively cheerful.”

Eventually, he found a clearing that met his very specific standards: dappled sunlight, filtered birdsong, and a breeze just strong enough to gently ruffle the petals in his basket. He laid back in the grass, hands behind his head, thoroughly pleased. He would remember this spot, he decided—but only share it with those who understood ambiance.

By the time the sun began its descent, his basket was full, his standards upheld, and his ego appropriately satisfied. It had been, by his own measure, a wildly successful outing. “Refined,” he murmured, already planning next week’s ride.