The other night, frogs crossed roads in the rain,
emerged from muddy dark & wet
into more of it,
following water down to where it seeps & holds—
the pools that won’t stay long
but are here now, ready
for the stashes of jelly clear eggs,
the heady rush toward spring, its brief
cacophony.
We draw ourselves maps
as if we are not at every moment crossing
a thousand invisible paths.
It happens sometimes—the rain at night, the bodies
flattened under wheels.
Enough
of the eggs will grow heavy & fruitful,
clumped & hidden under leaves, floating
nurseries, black specks
of un-formed eyes. The pools will recede but even
in summer you can sense them, those hollows
where the damp comes first
& lingers dark in the leaves, where life was cached.