Sometimes, after a rain, the boss-frog
(the one who got the little frogs
to stick their foot-long tongues
to the frozen swingset)
sometimes he remembers and says
Hey, let's go sit on the road!
And off they hump over millions of leaves
as slippery as themselves,
climbing the hill which looms
before them like a blue cloud
and arranging themselves
like baked potatoes on the blacktop,
loving that warm solidity.

The boss-frog, though,
hunkers on the darkened berm
and wonders how so many frogs
can be at home among uncertainties.
He's first to see
the twin-eye-beams' intent,
to hear the terrible engine.
He closes his eyes.
It will please him again,
as it did the first time,
that death — like lips, almost —
can be so soft.

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