At the Pond

Heron hunts, turtle extrudes eggs,
crows feast, rabbits are one less.
The virus spreads breath to breath.
And the wind blows warmly.
We dither.
Pushing at the unknown all around us,
pushing at the walls,
giving thanks for the light and life around us,
without which
all is darkness and heartache.

Last night we heard a new sound,
a vibratory clackity song.
Stop … again … stop … again.
We open the door … sudden silence … no repeat.
We close the door, bemused.
The song rises again, is answered distantly,
repeat … reverberate,
call … response. 

We creep outside,
called away from TV’s numbing stories.
The night throbs
with the urgency of a thousand frogs,
crescendo and diminuendo,
weaving with the not-so-distant acceleration of motor voices.
Cut off sharply by a car horn.
Again … alive and trilling, thick upon the air.

We are thoroughly here and grateful.
We are transported back in time and place
to Hashley Road, our beloved frog pond
where we thrilled to the spring peepers’ calls;
where we sat out at night in the wonder of stars and frog speech.
We murmur: there should be fireflies;
tiny spirits lighting the grass, searching for love.
We wonder if Florida has them.

As my body attunes to the sound-healing-gift of this night,
a smile grows in my facial muscles;
welcomed relief of sadness and doubt.
Heart soaring with the moment
threaded with the happy past,
I think, “At least we gave them this,”
meaning our boys,
who grew into men beside that frog pond,
whose hearts (whether they know it or not)
have been tuned to the song of Nature,
to the heartsong of Mother Earth. 

Someday when they need it most,
they will hear and remember,
they will see and be soothed,
perhaps they will give thanks,
as I do now, on the edge of tears,
and wonder at the unspeakable beauty,
and find the courage to carry on.