The Glass Frogs
you can’t see us
not like those golden frogs
flashing their beauty
because we’re not here
pretend we’re not here
you can’t eat us
you can’t see us
we’d taste like clean air
we’re transparent
invisibleuntil night when stars pass through us
moonlight flows into us
we start to sing
we need to sing
we love to sing
sing
sing
sing
~Margarita Engle, ‘Peering Up From Mud’
photo: any kid with Tennessee River mud under his nails is bound to love stuff like frogs, bard owls, snipes, whippoorwills and anything else that sounds like home, no matter where the endless mysteries of the creek may entice him to wander, like this kid from a summer day a really long time ago, sitting in that mud singing a song, what for the magical love of a mom that always surprised him: his very first guitar that cost about twice her monthly mortgage payment, his first camping trip sleeping next to a river in the mountains, and here with a camera and laughter, that definitely certain way, words with no words, everything is o.k. and you are exactly right where you belong.