At the pond
We see frogs,
Hundreds, my son says,
How there are so many
Frogs, as we walk past
The pond,
Or how they are small,
Maybe two centimeters,
Or how their bodies look
Like stones,
Until they
Move,
Their bodies,
Wet and moving,
And everywhere
On this sidewalk,
The road, or how
The grass between
Here
And the edge of the pond
Is full,
Full of them.
Later, we read about
These frogs, how they
Are called spring peepers
Or pseudacris crucifer,
A small chorus frog,
How they breed in ponds
And how they climb out,
Together,
And in groups,
Hundreds of them,
Moving like that,
Out of the pond
And to somewhere else.
Where, my son asks me,
Because he is in bed and
He is asking me,
Asking about the frogs,
Where they will go or
If they will survive,
And I tell him about
Amphibian development,
How frogs migrate
From one breeding pond
To some place else, how
It is biological, using the
Word habitat,
Saying want,
How the frogs want to go,
Which is different,
I say, to myself, but
Not to my son, who
Is falling asleep now,
How it is different from
Humans or what happens
To people who live
In a country torn
Apart
By war,
How they have to go,
How it is called conflict induced displacement,
A forced migration,
How there are more,
More than fifty million
Refugees in this world
Who are forced, forced
To leave their homes,
Their cities or countries
And lives
Or how tomorrow,
Tomorrow I will go
To the pond,
And it will be quiet or
Still,
How I will see them,
The frogs that died,
That did not make it,
Their bodies on the
Pavement,
Dried out
Now,
By the sun,
Bodies
Flat and like
An imprint
Or dust,
Barely there or
Almost gone.
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