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The frogs know when it's time:
after late summer rains
have driven the pollen from the top.
They dive privately,
spin in to the nether.

Imagine tiny skeletons
finely strewn on the sodden
underbelly. We pollywog stare
through the blackened reeds
that refuse to die
from spring to spring
and back to bracken.

The winter moon plays Narcissus:
looms large on the pond,
reflecting its ancient cameo self.
and the pond is an unblinking
silver eye
on the face of the earth
in a frogless night.

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