She was but 6 inches tall. I’m sorry, 6 and a *half* inches tall. A human, but much smaller. Standing in the middle of the keeled over, split branch where she made her home, she swept excess dust towards the edge. Moving the leaves she had hung up for privacy to the side, she gently pushed the dust pile out of her house and onto the forest floor beneath where it would be naturally recycled.

“Knock, knock,” a familiar voice came from the entryway.

“Mr. Frog!” She cried excitedly, spinning around towards her friend who was making his way into her home, “So glad you decided to come by today. Bringing anything good with you?”

“Wren, do I ever come to your house empty handed?” He asked, bringing his left hand to his front to reveal a large acorn husk with the cap on, but not tight enough to conceal the fermented honey water that had sloshed up during his hop over and was now oozing down the sides, gleaming in the midday sun.

Wren licked her lips, “No, Frog, you always come strapped don’t you? Well go on ahead, I’ll grab the mugs you made me and meet you at the perch, just have to finish tidying up!”

Frog nodded and hopped away. After a quick brush over the room, Wren grabbed the only two cups she had, smaller acorn husks, and ran out through her leaf wall, down the makeshift path down the dead tree, and onto the stepping stones below. She hopped from stone to stone following her friends footprints to the soft path through the cattail reeds and up onto a tree stump conveniently located halfway in the lake.

She could see that Frog had already taken a few sips of his famous concoction and passed him a mug before eagerly holding hers out to be filled by the golden goo. Frog tilted the container to let the honey water make its way out, filling their mugs with the beautifully bright sun shining through the semi-opaque liquid.

Wren had known Frog for as long as she could remember. He was her closest friend and they did not need to fill the quiet, calm space between them with conversation.

They sat, their legs dangling off the side of the stump while water bugs and tadpoles danced in the shallow water, taking drinks from their mugs and enjoying the warm fuzz that slowly blanketed over them as the effects of the honey kicked in.

The sun was setting quickly now. The first of the songs started from the bank opposite of them, a lovely feminine voice croaking a song of longing.

“Care to dance?” Frog asked.

“Why of course.” replied Wren, far too familiar with the routine, but always eager to enjoy it after a mug of honey. She stood on her toes and waited.

Frog hopped onto the broad cap of a mushroom that had recently sprouted atop their perch and laid on his back, looking up to the emerging stars above, coughed a couple of times, and began his deep sounding melody.

Wren moved around the stump in smooth gliding motions. The music was much slower tonight than usual, and required a graceful step.

As Frog sang and Wren danced and the sun set beyond the trees, lightning bugs emerged and sailed about the evening air. Almost every night was like this. Almost every night was perfect.