All spring the tree frogs peeped in the dark,
except those seeming lost
in the grass by the wooden steps, their
bodies like paper.
I would let the dog out the back door at night and
walk alone up the hill toward the barn while he
nosed under the pear tree.
The moon in the barn window.
The low-bush blueberry ransacked by grackles.
And on the side of the hill the
aspen grove, even on
windless nights fluttering.
I would take a palate-shaped leaf in my hand, call
out for the dog.
Other girls must know how to weep
with their mothers.
I’d think of Mama in the kitchen,
singing to a cloud of steam;
the things we would share
if I could stand to see her tremble.
Like the hermit thrush who sang not
to me but to his kin, at night,
a reedy tremolo.
Mama would wake before me,
the red-winged blackbird crying o-ka-lee.