Mud coating skin
on my achilles. Ears
licked by a damp
breath of high grass.
I hear bullfrogs groaning
baritone, see stars ripple
across still, dark
water. I’d float
between lily pads if
it wasn’t for snapping turtles,
wade waist deep over
algae rocks, pull leeches
from my calves.
I lack the amphibian grace
to set my chin onto water,
to fill this empty night
with my own throat song.
When a hand stretches
toward me, I recede.
Lightning bugs hover
on the far side
of the pond.
Jeff Thomas is a poet from The Thumb. The water in his eyes came from the Belle River. The banks that hold his heart in place are made out of song.