Four frogs are lined up on the same upper window sill outside, slumbering in the narrow shade of a large myrtle tree. They are a ghastly ashen gray color due to their automatically cutting back their metabolism as they sleep, safe from predators, weather, and humans. “Etherized upon a table” they look. I wonder what a frog dreams, let alone four of them. Not a twitch despite my obvious hovering; their eyes are unmoved, even no rapid eye movements to hint at dreams. “To sleep, perchance to dream” may not be part of a frog’s angst — at least not until nightfall and hunger awakes them again.