I’m thinking of the frog song, penetrating night,
cacophony of varied strains, each eager to be heard
settled somewhere one block down along the creek
I cannot see, but know runs through the land beyond
the pasture, unseen, also silent, until springtime storms
soak hard clay and amphibious chorus resounds

I walk the neighborhood most nights, spring
through autumn, and always watch for wildlife
my inner child eagerly hoping for some small glimpse
of possum, skunk, or — after rain, perhaps a frog.
each washed-up clod of dirt on dark and glistening road
a hoped-for friend. this time the rains came heavily

flooding our yard and filling our home with muddy paws
for days, but only frog-song, only clods, until one night,
long after I stopped looking, a hop in the darkness
at the edge of the road. I descended with childlike thrill,
moved my hands just so, anticipated each hop’s protest
my desire to contain, I gently cupped the creature

scooped her up and held her in my hands the half-block home
she wriggled and writhed, pushing strong legs against
the cave walls of my hands, I beamed — delighted to feel
her little body’s squirm — to feel the vibrance of her life
impress its mighty scale upon me, she bhrupped,
I startled slightly, eyes wide with wonder and joy

at home I slipped her into a small aquarium under
porch-light glow and watched her breathe and hop,
the power of her legs — how I long for love of creatures
who long only to be wild — I may feel her, but only under
unseen darkness of capped palm — or I may watch her,
contained and inaccessible to touch — for to hold her,

hands wide open — to feel her as I gaze, would provoke
a hop away — she knows nothing of the love I have
for her, loving dark, moist burrows, outings in the night
after rains, a hope for a well-fed tummy. my love for her
irrelevant, not knowingly needed for her survival
I am an interloper — too big, too bold to comprehend —

so I reach in gently, wrap my slender fingers around her
little body and long legs, and carry her home in the dark
to the corner where grass meets asphalt and set her
kindly on the dewey earth — I urge her with a nudge
and whispered blessing away from the road and say
a silent prayer she will be safe and well,

this singular beauty, plucked from the ground
away from the choir of song, a chance encounter
with the divine, little spade foot toad.