The sun sets, sky darkens, and the frog choir
starts to sing to the semiaqua-tic,
tic, of the metronome. Notes rise higher,
like the frogs wish they could. Their lunatic
plans of conquering water, earth, now sky
are doomed. The birds laugh at their hopeless song.
Who would ever think that a frog could fly?
They should stay on the ground where they belong.
Owls soar above on their evening patrol,
and frogs watch with envy, like they could will
themselves wings. But these are dreams for tadpoles
who haven’t yet learned what the world is. Still,
they raise their amphibious voices to croon
night time songs at an indifferent moon.
As published in the Spring 2020 Issue of Stillpoint Literary Magazine
Comments