- For Linda Hogan
Walking in the yard, I look down, see a pale little frog, belly-up. Not more than an inch and a half, limbs all splayed out on the hot cement. And I think, Oh! poor thing. I bet the dog got it. Played with it. I bend to pick it up by its tiny arm and - the creamy throat pulses. Pulses. Alive, still alive! I flip it over in my hand, right side up. She immediately collects herself into a crouch. Golden eyes blink. She’s stunned; maybe playing dead. I put her down in a damp flowerpot, a prayer amidst a tangle of purple and pink and white and indigo. Shaded, cool. And I leave her there. A few hours later, I search through the flowers. No shiny leopard-skin beauty. Maybe she made it. It happens that way sometimes. Someone passing through; someone else passing through. Paths crossing. You reach out your hand, do – nothing spectacular. Just what you can do. What you can do.
Deborah A. Miranda