(the one we used to take when we were “we”)
I wander past where all the rain has brought up
new grass, my formerly waterproof shoes
now leaking cold droplets into my cotton socks.
I scatter towhees and warblers from bushes, oaks
trying to avoid getting too close to the creek
so I don’t make the nearby singing go silent -
the squelchy baritone belching
of frogs promising their maybe-mates
good mud homes
D.H.R. Fishman's work has most recently appeared in Contemporary World Literature and The San Diego Poetry Annual.