Pseudacris Crucifer

May 24 2019

The peepers

must have some long taxonomic name

that would make me sound learned

but would convey nothing of the sound

that inaugurates spring

as reliably

as trails turning to mud

the smell of earth.

The mating urge of males

that even pools of ice-cold water

cannot suppress.

Who somehow survived winter,

and in their tiny frog minds

grasp the need to procreate,

the imperative

that animates nature

with its drive

desire

haste.

Despite the precarious weather

that can see-saw overnight

from freeze to thaw and back.

Such a loud piercing call

from so small a creature.

Who fall silent

as the dogs and I approach

resume as we pass,

uncannily alert

in their hidden amphibious world.

I have never seen a peeper

know no one who has.

But their chorus fills the nights

and seems to shout

longing

toughness

rebirth.

The promise of spring,

when a young man feels his blood

and wants to make some noise

and goes searching for love;

or at least something 
that feels close enough.

In a few weeks, we will hear just the single peep

of the the pond's last inhabitant,

who couldn't hit the high notes

or sang too soft

or was awkward with the girls.

A lonely bachelor frog,

singing out another spring

like every spring before.