Horned Frog.
A quiet pond. A lazy evening. Until— the chirp of crickets is fractured by the wail of the trumpet. The water’s surface swells and lily pads vibrate to the jubilant noise. He really swings, daddy-o. It’s an all-out celebration.
And, just as bright as the notes from his horn, is his wardrobe. There is as much a “dance for the eyes”, as there is for the feet.