The Bullfrog

Strength is not the same as truth. Volume is not the same as vision.

There was, and there was not, a time when the Raven flew near the outer walls of the heart of the kingdom —where stone met water and echoes lingered longer than words.

She heard him before she saw him.

The Bullfrog sat at the edge of a shallow pond that shimmered in the afternoon light. His voice was deep and round, and filled the air like thunder caught in a jar.

He was mid-monologue when she landed.

“I told them,” he bellowed to no one in particular. “I told them what needed to be done. You hesitate, you lose. That’s the problem with too many voices. You get nothing done!”

Raven tilted her head, watching him as she folded her wings.

“I’ve found that sometimes listening is what moves things forward,” she offered gently.

The Bullfrog turned, startled, then smirked. “Ah! A visitor. Another advisor, perhaps? Come to weigh in after the work is already done?”

“I come to observe,” Raven replied. “And to learn.”

“Well,” he said, puffing his throat and shifting on his rock, “you’re lucky you’ve found me, then. I’ve seen it all. I've made hard calls. No time for hand-wringing or overthinking.”

She recognized the rhythm of his speech. The way he filled the space before anyone else could step in. The way he repeated his points like they were already consensus.

It reminded her of voices she had heard in the heart of the Kingdom.

There, the creatures who climbed quickest were often the loudest. The ones who filled silences fast, who made decisions swiftly. And sometimes, they were brilliant—asking the sharp question that cut straight to the truth, pivoting entire systems in one clean phrase.

But other times… other times, she had seen those voices drown out caution. She had seen safety overridden by urgency, perception dismissed in favor of velocity. She had watched as clear, calm warnings were brushed aside for louder, faster gain.

And she had learned.

She waited as the Bullfrog continued—his words bouncing between declarations and dismissals, assumptions dressed as certainties.

When he paused to breathe, she gently spoke.

“You are certain,” she said. “Certainty can be useful. But certainty can also silence.”

The Bullfrog blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means your voice is strong,” Raven said. “But strength is not the same as truth. Volume is not the same as vision.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but she raised a wing—slowly, firmly.

“I’ve worked with those like you before,” she continued, voice still even. “Some asked questions that changed everything. Others charged forward and broke what could not be rebuilt. The difference was not in their tone, but in their listening.”

He looked unsettled then. Not angry. Just… unfamiliar with being met, not overpowered.

Raven didn’t press.

Instead, she looked to the pond, its surface rippling with the weight of his voice. Then she looked beyond it, toward the quiet hills that waited for no applause.

“I’ll leave you to your thinking,” she said. “But if you ever wonder what else the room might hold, try asking the question and waiting for the echo.”

She took off, wings sweeping through the air like a closing curtain.

Behind her, the Bullfrog remained still—perhaps reflecting, perhaps preparing his next monologue. But the ripples on the pond stilled, slowly.

And in the silence she left behind, there was space for more than one voice.

© 2025 Sarah Dooley. Story and images by the author. All rights reserved.