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Frog Season

Out into the late afternoon this Full Wolf Moon lures me,

“Never mind the uncertainty of the storm clouds.

“Come alive!  Be under grey skies again.”

I feel the life of a well-soaked, well-aged log beneath me,

smell rich green clover sprung up all around,

watch my daughter’s happy woodland play,

gaze up at the dark ridge, down at the lush ground,

and remember that this healer isn’t known for making home visits:

Nature, the Good Nurse.

At night frogs call me with a chorus mighty in volume

and strong in abrupt silence.

The pond is full again. It’s frog season.

After my family is sleeping, I head for the water.

The dog stirs and follows me through the garden gate

and over the pasture fence.

They sing so loud!  They fill my soul with real life‑-

up from the dark depths, coming out in the moonlight.

Their chants take me apart, bring me peace.

They drown out all sounds of this swelling coast,

blind me to new houselights in the distance.

I think of mud,

sink deep into the earth,

find my soul.

Horses’ hooves thunder on the wet ground.

The dog herds them.  It’s her hunting game.

It’s deep in her blood, this thing to do.

It’s deep in mine.

 

 

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