Tree Frogs

One time, I told a woman that tree frogs sang to me in the evenings. The words sprang without though but with a full sense of knowing. They were each other's companions before they were mine. And when I tried to include myself in their thinking, I was undone. I proclaimed disbelief and hardened my lips.

Since then, I have found many brown frogs grass-squatting and small, only the length of my thumb. With their legs sprawling, which rarely occurs. Unless they are jumping and one measures that split in time when their legs are not pocketed in their bodies.

As these frogs are my witnesses and as there is no lack of trees in my vicinity, I can only conclude that my words knew themselves far better than I did. And indeed there are tree frogs calling to each other. And indeed the crickets join. But these are two distinct, unblendable hoverings that sound outside of my glowing bay window.

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In more recent news:
I walked that path that curves today, disclosing it to another of the few of those meant for knowing. I still have kept it from that boy I sometimes call a man, the one I cannot help but spool my arms around each time his long arms reach up in stretching. I drank tea and tea and coffee, and I read a poem I wrote aloud at a particular literary society. And someone said they would want to live in my poem, in the way that sometimes cartoons seem more real, more livable, than real life. And I smiled out small parceled thank yous. Small, because I didn't want to draw too much attention to myself, I realized as I passed them. I thought about inking glass to press prints, but I declined action. I marked books with check marks and forgot the equation for a circle.

A full day.