Kids! This evening as I was walking back home from my sister's, across the street, I heard the first frogs of the season, croaking happily in her small pond.
Hearing them reminded me of a short ode I wrote to frogs, in the months when I lived in a small outpost on a rather large pond at the base of some mountains in Clayoquot Sound. Every evening, at sunset, the mountains turned a deep blushing rose, the frogs serenaded, and herons swooped overhead. I wrote about the herons too. Here they are: a nostalgic trip back to a time of pure beauty.
Song of the frogs
in the fading light
soft fade the hills
in the falling night
God touching earth
with a gentle might
and all is beauty
within my sight
soft falls the light
on garden walls
a rose-hued mountain
as day's curtain falls
a froggy symphony
serenades the night sky
and grateful, grateful, grateful
I.
*** *** ***
Ode to a Heron
Graceful heron
swooping across
the evening sky
like a pteradactyl,
Prehistoric bird
perched
on a treetop,
my heart swoops
with you,
then stills,
standing by
the silent pond,
waiting for the night
to settle
around us both
softly
as feathers.
Ode to a Heron
Graceful heron
swooping across
the evening sky
like a pteradactyl,
Prehistoric bird
perched
on a treetop,
my heart swoops
with you,
then stills,
standing by
the silent pond,
waiting for the night
to settle
around us both
softly
as feathers.
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