Once upon a time there was an old frog. Fed up with his narrow lillypad life, he decided to take a leap. And so he leapt. His long back legs propelled him toward a new life, he felt. He was proud of his legs, taut, long, efficient. The webbing between his toes was especially fine. But that, he reflected, was because of his own fine grooming techniques: the lillypad slime twice a day, the dragonfly goo before bed every night. And of course, no flies after 9pm.

But then, everyone had a few touch sacrifices. His were especially worth it, he felt, because of the outcome. He flexed his thighs, stretched his calves, and nodded to himself, and leapt.

Off to his left, a tuft of grass showed a gentle cross breeze. The surface of the pond below rippled faintly, a few haiku lines of wind. Overhead a squadron of Canadian honkers caught the airstream and cruised.

His toes spread, stretching his fine webbing. His arms reached out, ready for the landing. His throat filled taut with his famous croak.

And his whole new life expanded in his vision, obliterating the whole before, taking over the now and the then.