Spring Peepers
I lie next to the frog song of the pond,
beneath the willow tree
that sways and creaks against a gentle
breeze threatening to turn storm. I tremble
like the falling leaves
around me, grit and grind my teeth
into sandpapered wooden stumps.
I pull the silence closer
while it points its heavy blade
to the hollow of my throat
and tells me,
“Hush,” in what could only be
the tone of a lover. I fear that no one
will hear me,
or that if they do, my cries will be
heralded as a warning
when it is pain it truly holds
and holds out to be inspected.
I am an insect beneath a microscope
while all that is heard
is a coyote’s cry as dusk falls. And if I were
indeed the coyote,
it would be the farmer who stalks.
Not I.
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