Spring Peepers
March and their pearly tender throats groan
with the weight of drifted silence, warming
to the ticklish work of wriggling free
crescendos of lust a frozen lozenge
thawing on the tips of sluggish torqued tongues
primed to stab frenzied clouds of
damselflies
oscillating low over the teeming
black water, turning for just a moment
away from the churlish cacophony
to consider my clumsy mid-winter
tattoo on the frozen thrumming drum head
of the pond, a croak of indignation
against my boorish wallow over thin
ice spidering outward from my snow shoes.
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