Richard King Perkins II
If we finish in this way, morning slips back into night
and the night starts to shine. What begins the chanting?
What, beyond the valley, makes the others sing?
Last month, in the gullies, the deeper gouges, a single
bullfrog was tumbled into weeds of homelessness.
Most days, we’ll hear its distressed call, sometimes
doglike, sometimes almost human. Skin dusted with quiet,
needing puddle or rain. And then the slow drumbeat,
lead striking lead, in the tall grasses. It could almost be
a child; restless dreaming in the wilderness. A young son
who slipped away one …