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


Their bodies,

Wet and moving,

And everywhere

On this sidewalk,

The road, or how

The grass between


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,


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


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


How I will see them,

The frogs that died,

That did not make it,

Their bodies on the


Dried out


By the sun,


Flat and like

An imprint

Or dust,

Barely there or

Almost gone.

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