After the drought, the frogs.
They come with the rain, sudden
monsoons now flooding
the parched arroyos and stockponds.
Frogs by the thousands, and
the mesa is filled with their music.
It’s more than croaking, it’s electronic,
from every direction this burrrup,
this twee-too ki zhaw buzz,
think of phonelines and transformers,
think of neon flashing ballasts
gone to 50,000 watts beyond Las Vegas
in the sagebrush in the now clear
coolness of infinite post-rain dark,
holy stars to answer in their
blink, blink, their subtle flash
of recognition, every constellation
waking from its hibernation,
re-hydrant and alive after months,
after eons, fully vital, filled
with themselves, back in their
own bladders, back in their own
water, back on a wavelength
tuned before birth; how she arrived
last Sunday, Ashley, after night
had closed our book, your headlights
wild with halogen, your one blind eye
still rivets me, I hold your hand
and worship every kri gaw, ko kru,
every bozit tanga toba, every
living syllable, Sofía, Sofía
leaping from your womb.