Some matches are made of pasta - as autocorrect would have it - and some, like these, are more flowing.  The Frog’s exuberant discourse, not to be underrated just because it is water, and really, and here I may have been reading too much Jose Saramago, though that expression is paradoxical as how can one read too much Saramago, and water while not signifying words, most definitely has meaning and content, and - leaving aside the circularity of the fountain in which these two are found, is most probably never the same stream twice, and so I think the pigeon, who is now long gone, and the frog, make up a kind of haiku:

Spring springs white,

  The  frog’s green glaze,

Hastens the dove’s flight.