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Tuesday, August 14, 2018
Stepping out of my street clothes
Into the not quite warm enough water
Of the frog people who sang of desire
In the unique way of their kin.
The Chorus Frogs
The Bull Frogs
The Leopard Frogs
The Green Frogs
Others competing for the attention
Of a lady, perhaps seen, perhaps not.
The persistent songs shattering the
Quiet and calling others for back up.
The Barred Owl
Going about making their living under
The light of a crescent, waxing or waning,
With percussion provided by creatures
Announcing themselves in splashes.
Some drawing traces in the darkness on
The floor where the gooseberry ripens.
Some scribbling endlessly on the near
Ceiling higher than the tallest of the oaks.
The White-tailed Deer
The Little Brown Bats
Perhaps I was the only one cognizant of
My respective relatives on that night.
Perhaps everyone was immersed in
The special ambiance of this place.