I am a frog, or a bird, and my throat
swells with song. I cruise through
clouds of mud, while
flocks of yellow eels bear witness,
biting the tails of trout,
bruising their nonexistent heels
as of old,
and when the doors of winter are opened in the sky
I shall sink through soft brown ooze,
to kneel upon bedrock until that foreign cold is gone,
to wind my fine yellow tapestries of slime,
so I may not fade
like the Archaeopteryx.
©1983 Alan P. Scott. All rights reserved.
Last updated April 5, 2002.