Harbinger - April 26 2021

Harbinger

April 26 2021

Spring thaw,

and melt-water fills

every ditch, depression

seasonal pond.

Heart-stopping cold,

and this morning

a skim of ice on top.

Yet the peepers were out

for the first time this spring,

small reclusive frogs

chorusing lustily for mates.

I say reclusive,

but only because I never see them,

concealed in their soggy habitat

and quieting when I approach.

So it seems nothing will chill desire,

and, like us

the males of the species compete;

if not for the biggest bankroll

or flashiest car

then to see which is loudest.

For me, they are the first sign of spring,

a harbinger of rebirth

emerging from winter sleep.

But are late this year

and more subdued.

Was it a hard winter

that lasted too long?

Is it too dry a spring?

Or is this a sign of change;

the planet warming

and the weather erratic,

the time-tested cycles of life

badly out-of-sync?

How sad

if these tough little creatures

did not survive.

How ominous

when the world shifts beneath our feet

and we carry on regardless

oblivious to the signs.

A silent spring, as Rachel Carson foretold.

A last lonely peeper

chorusing alone.

I heard them for the first time this year, out walking last evening. It's a wintry spring: April 26, and right now it's snowing. I'm always amazed at their ability to withstand the cold. Even my furry warm-blooded dogs are reluctant to get into that recently frozen water!

When I completed the first draft, I recalled having written a similar poem; and looking back, it was 3 springs ago. (And I'm pleased to see that it stands up well. I can't say as much for a lot of my old stuff!) I see that I touched on many of the same ideas. But that poem ended on the poignant note of the last peeper of spring, the one who couldn't find a mate. This one ended more soberly, with the last peeper altogether: a dark parable on the climate crisis we have failed to face.

So the title is ironic: the sound of peepers a harbinger of the season of rebirth; but also a harbinger of dying and displaced species, and the critical loss of biodiversity.

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.