Shades of greens and summer blues on the banks of the backwaters at
Carlson’s Creek. This place feels familiar and safe like act three of a
Neil Simon play. Out of the corner of my eye a shadow fell, in came
Prancing a colossal contingency of frogs, your average green variety

Led triumphantly by the most charming fellow - a great deal larger
And fatter than the rest with cheeks as big as airbags, and a voice like
Sinatra’s after two or three glasses of wine. To the sacred turtle queen’s
Daughter he coyly bowed, then bellowed loud in heavy bass baritone,
“I’m Croaker B. Frog, my darling dear; may I ask you for this dance?”

A curtsy, a twirl, a smile, a laugh and ballerina slippers, silken pink
Pirouetted Croaker’s way, “Don’t mind if I do” Merry pronounced
The average greens formed a large circle, chanting and playing flutes
While Croaker B. Frog & Merry Turtle, danced under the daytime moon
Performing the Danish Hootchie Coochie, and Belarusian Trot.

Occasionally there would be some dips, but always, Merry Turtle led,
Healthy gal that she was. “Why do you dance, Merry?” Said Croaker B.
To Merry Turtle “Same reason you sing, because the world is so horrible,
Too horrible for me to write a poem about – so I dance instead, to forget

The bad and celebrate living.” Merry Turtle and Croaker B. danced for hours
To the Average greens fanciful flutes, graceful as butterflies, enjoying one
Another’s company, deciding on nothing new but to live and to laugh and be.
Alone, I slither off unnoticed, content to seek my prey and music elsewhere.