It’s a November dusk on the allotment. My least favourite times of day and year. It’s cold and I’m wearing two pairs of socks and thick-heeled boots to stop autumn’s sog and rot leaching into me. I’m also, however, holding out for a peculiar magic that this damp, overgrown space holds. I work quickly to stay warm, but quietly to not disturb birds. I plant broad beans and garlic in uneven rows. Distantly, I can hear traffic, but I’m more tuned in to the closer late-day rush for food and roosts. Starlings gather in rooftop groups and chat excitedly. Eventually, there’s a sudden rush of wings above my head, as hundreds make their way to Brighton’s piers for murmuration, their big sunset dance in the sky. Sometimes, if I happen to be standing as they fly over me, I can feel their wingbeats on my face. I pack up, then sit on my makeshift bench by the pond. There’s a closeness to near-darkness. Do I feel more because I see less? A fluffed up magpie sits on a fence post; a thin plume of bonfire smoke drifts over silhouettes; midges dance. Then I hear it – what I’ve been waiting for. The low, rumbling croak of a male frog. It’s quiet at first, as if shy, then gains confidence and belts out its song as if there isn’t a grinning human two feet away. No one knows why frogs croak in autumn, but I see it as a party invite for spring shenanigans. Males overwinter near or at the bottom of ponds, presumably so they can be first to the party in spring. Why wouldn’t they make sure the females know which pond they’ve chosen? The grass around the pond is long. I could be sharing it with a thousand frogs and I wouldn’t know, except for this one, reminding me that it’s not just me dreaming of spring. I close my eyes and the world smells of damp grass and decay. But there will be frogspawn in this pond. There will be mating and eggs and tadpoles. New life. Spring will be here again. The frog says so.