There used to be tiny toads in the lawn at the parental home, from spring through fall. The house was a few hundred feet from an estuary on Long Island Sound.
They were like little living stones. We didn’t touch them. We’d lie in the damp grass on our stomachs, watching. We’d fall asleep, and wake later. And they’d still be there, but someplace else.
After waking, cheeks and calves, and if we’d fallen asleep with a palm pillowing a head, the back of one hand, would show grass-textured pressure-patterns.