The Night of Frogs

The whine

Of frogs in heat,

The great, wet orchestra,

Signaling the spectrum

Of amphibian emotion

From lust to dust,

Can be insufferable

And often is,

On the night walks where the sun isn’t

Needed for your clothes to stick

And the labyrinthian green

Expels its excess in a steady stream.

Insufferable until

You breathe back,

The sweat on the nape of your neck

Evaporates

And joins the conscious writhing

Of the marsh at large.

The frogs become silent

When they sense a creature

Invade their musings and intrude

On their frequencies.

Now is your time,

While the moon melts

In the rising vapors,

To become the cacophony you dread.

Take your pride and carve

Tracts in the fermented mud

Twice sullied by spit tobacco.

Upon the expanding of your throat,

Upon the widening of your eyes,

Upon the defamation of your species,

Become at once

The loudest

And most insufferable

Frog in the marsh.