Frog

Small green body, smooth and slick,
a sheen like morning dew on leaves.
Bulging eyes, golden-ringed,
watching the world with quiet patience.

Its limbs are long, thin as twigs,
yet strong enough to vault the sky.
Toes tipped with tiny suction pads,
made for clinging to bark and stone.

It crouches low—
a coiled spring in still water.
Then leaps—
a sudden blur,
a splash,
a ripple,
a vanishing.

It moves like thought:
silent, quick,
with purpose written in each twitch.

Its skin glistens under moonlight,
a soft pulse with each breath.
Cool to the touch,
fragile yet firm,
it breathes through the skin and waits.

A heron swoops—
it dives.
A snake slithers—
it freezes,
becoming stone among stones.

When crickets chirp,
it answers.
A sharp call,
throat swelling like a balloon,
a wet bubble of sound.

It shares the pond,
not with pride,
but quiet claim.
Neither friend nor foe to fish,
avoiding claws,
accepting bugs,
living beside the dragonfly
and beneath the duck.

It is small.
It is simple.
It is enough.