last night I dreamt we met in person
and talked of all the mundane things
that make a life, like where did I leave
my phone (again), and how to choose
a swimsuit, and, consulting with a friend,
how the voles across the street are having
triplets, and what a forgetful day I’d had

I was exasperated and apologetic, and you
said “maybe just not a very planned one”
and you were right and I felt better, now
(where did I leave my wallet?) and how
beautiful the night was with people
in the plaza, fires burning in rings
folks gathering around them, floating
voices scattered quietly like starlight
dancing on the night air, and you joked

how brave it was for you to visit Texas
heat, you wore a lightweight cotton
button-down shirt in white, sleeves
rolled up to elbows, and a long, flowing
skirt, an effortless picture of style
and leisure and you laughed, but I
agreed, so grateful you were there

and grateful for nightfall’s respite,
small relief, we walked and talked
(looking for my wallet), considering
sleeping fields of voles, tucked
inside their holes, you asked me
something about a poem, and I
never found my answer, interrupted
by all the sights and sounds around
and the joy of our own laughter,

talking of the things of life and all
the sorts of lovely forgettable and
memorable things that happen
when two share company together
in the reality of manifested presence

I’m thinking of the frog song, penetrating night,
cacophony of varied strains, each eager to be heard
settled somewhere one block down along the creek
I cannot see, but know runs through the land beyond
the pasture, unseen, also silent, until springtime storms
soak hard clay and amphibious chorus resounds

I walk the neighborhood most nights, spring
through autumn, and always watch for wildlife
my inner child eagerly hoping for some small glimpse
of possum, skunk, or — after rain, perhaps a frog.
each washed-up clod of dirt on dark and glistening road
a hoped-for friend. this time the rains came heavily

flooding our yard and filling our home with muddy paws
for days, but only frog-song, only clods, until one night,
long after I stopped looking, a hop in the darkness
at the edge of the road. I descended with childlike thrill,
moved my hands just so, anticipated each hop’s protest
my desire to contain, I gently cupped the creature

scooped her up and held her in my hands the half-block home
she wriggled and writhed, pushing strong legs against
the cave walls of my hands, I beamed — delighted to feel
her little body’s squirm — to feel the vibrance of her life
impress its mighty scale upon me, she bhrupped,
I startled slightly, eyes wide with wonder and joy

at home I slipped her into a small aquarium under
porch-light glow and watched her breathe and hop,
the power of her legs — how I long for love of creatures
who long only to be wild — I may feel her, but only under
unseen darkness of capped palm — or I may watch her,
contained and inaccessible to touch — for to hold her,

hands wide open — to feel her as I gaze, would provoke
a hop away — she knows nothing of the love I have
for her, loving dark, moist burrows, outings in the night
after rains, a hope for a well-fed tummy. my love for her
irrelevant, not knowingly needed for her survival
I am an interloper — too big, too bold to comprehend —

so I reach in gently, wrap my slender fingers around her
little body and long legs, and carry her home in the dark
to the corner where grass meets asphalt and set her
kindly on the dewey earth — I urge her with a nudge
and whispered blessing away from the road and say
a silent prayer she will be safe and well,

this singular beauty, plucked from the ground
away from the choir of song, a chance encounter
with the divine, little spade foot toad.