Spring Peepers

I lie next to the frog song of the pond,

beneath the willow tree

that sways and creaks against a gentle

breeze threatening to turn storm. I tremble

like the falling leaves

around me, grit and grind my teeth

into sandpapered wooden stumps.

I pull the silence closer

while it points its heavy blade

to the hollow of my throat

and tells me,

“Hush,” in what could only be

the tone of a lover. I fear that no one

will hear me,

or that if they do, my cries will be

heralded as a warning

when it is pain it truly holds

and holds out to be inspected.

I am an insect beneath a microscope

while all that is heard

is a coyote’s cry as dusk falls. And if I were

indeed the coyote,

it would be the farmer who stalks.

Not I.