"He's good enough for one thing, I should judge -- he can outjump any frog in Calaveras county."
He’s there, great bulk that leapt
from the water-log, sidled stiffly
in a body of brown-tipped cattails,
a collection of claves, playing with the wind.
He, great green and gold-leafed god
of the pond, sings a song,
Barry White of the night, and calls
mocking from the brown backwater,
skirting along the depths of the delta’s
slick safe-haven. Waiting to rise
with coined eyes and watch
me watch him off.
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Bu-rrrrraapp.
ReplyDelete. . . I like much.