Any worries about what might happen today, the date that folks stricken by paraskevidekatriaphobia everywhere fear the most, quickly went by the wayside when the sun came out, the temperature rose into the upper 50s, and it actually felt like early spring. In response, the Spring Peepers started to call in the late afternoon, and by dusk, it was surround-sound. I thought I might have heard the first of the toad trills in there so I opted to visit the large open-air vernal in my friend's meadow, which is now the Samuel Cote Preserve and a North Stonington Land Alliance holding. No toads yet but there was an amazing, almost deafening, abundance of singing peepers. In the vernal I monitor near the house, the frogs typically go silent when I approach, but that isn't the case here. As I stood knee-deep in the chilly water—I was wearing chest-high waders—these diminutive tree frogs, both solo and in pairs, pair no attention to the documentarian and continued their concerts, along with their, um... well, no need to get graphic. The peepers were graphic enough.