Echoing deeply through the heavy fog,
A chorus of croakers in the bowery bog.
There’s something about those slimy frogs
Croaking on those grimy logs,
That takes me back to boyhood days,
Less crowded times and slower ways.
An uncommon fella, mostly green,
Often heard but seldom seen.
Legs built like a catapult
To reduce his odds of getting caught.
Bulging eyes to scan the night,
And avoid the crunch of a raccoon’s bite.
Eyes glowing brightly, he looks right big,
Showed me where to aim my gig.
As a kid I chased these slippery sitters,
Trying to catch those crazy critters.
Every now and then I did succeed
Amidst cattails and much pondweed.
I still see the legs there in the skillet,
Twitching and jumping even though we’d killed it.
Tadpoles swimming in a clean fishbowl,
Caught and brought from the fishing hole.
Dismembered too in Biology class
Examined there on microscope glass.
And on our encyclopedia pages,
Dissected there in transparent stages.
At camp when we scared those female souls,
By inserting amphibians in their bedrolls.
When one crawled up our dishwashing machine,
We upended it to get it clean.
Yes frogs are not so very attractive,
But they provide much fun that’s interactive.
And so I’ll thank God for froggy nights,
And all their sounds, memories, and sights.
George Bowers, March 2012