“Mountain Frog”

It’s not a real frog, yet it crouches in a way that perfectly captures the contours of mountain ranges, solidifying into a warm, jade‑like artifact steeped in ancient elegance.

Lying poised along the edge of a pristine white disc, it seems as though it has just emerged from the primordial void, peering intently toward the vast, hollow center of the disc—a portal to another world, or perhaps the very well from which it has just leapt? The disc itself is the moon, a mirror, and a fleeting slice of time. The frog’s back is rounded, its limbs drawn close; in its posture, there is no trace of leaping or bounding—only an ageless, mountain‑rock‑deep contemplation.

It is so still that you can almost hear silence itself resonating. It feels as if the slightest touch would send it “plop”—plunging into the white void, rippling outward in ripples that never quite materialize, before everything once again sinks back into this perfect, symmetrical, meticulously orchestrated stillness.

It does not call out, nor does it leap—it simply is.

Like a mountain, like a stone, like a delicate, deeply evocative fable about “waiting.”