In a crowd of people talking, you whispered up at me and asked who was singing in the woods.
In the dark, little girl, we bent together and listened to the pond music made by a thousand froggy throats.
We call them peepers, and hand in hand we found a quiet place to listen. You warned me not to step on them, but that’s only the echo that makes them seem close.
Still, it’s a haunting kind of sound and you worry aloud that the peepers will come and scare us.
Not them. A thousand other things might be wrong, but the peepers are just waking up to a wonderful world, and singing in the dark, they celebrate.