Last night in Virginia, the peepers began their song,
the sound of spring, not just promised, but arrived.
Friends made recordings, posted hither and yon,
the sweet song a thing of rejoicing.
As I child, I remember open windows
on my grandfather’s farm, and in the swampland
that crept bear the house,
The peepers sang all night long. All night!
No matter when you woke, they were there,
an almost overwhelming choir,
only going quiet when animals of the night
passed through the woods. And then,
they began again.
Not so much now, here in Vermont.
It is still cold here, with more snow on the way
and the peepers in sensible hibernation.
WIndows stay closed and the animals in the forest
disturb no one. You do not even know they are there
except for a few tracks in the snow,
The nights are silent, and as you listen
to the tiny dark recordings on your screen,
You remember where you came from,
for the briefest moment, yearning, but just as quickly,
remembering – the longer the winter,
the sweeter the peeper’s song.
About this poem
Spawned by the fact that many of my friends in Virginia posted recordings of spring peepers, those wonderful songful reptiles last night. So it is about the singing frogs I am so fond of, but also about the things that come to us later in life, and how sweet those things can be.
And no, the picture is not one of mine.