Frog Spring
By Valerie Gillies
Surprised by my tasting the spring, a golden frog
leaps to the bank. He flies to froggy places,
his ankle-joints stretch the moment.
A puddock from his pop-eyes to his paddle-toes,
he darts out of the vital pool. Immortal frog,
to see him so healthy is a sure sign
the spring will do the same for me.
He hops past my shoulder into the paddy-pipes,
the reed-bed pockets frog. He vanishes through,
each spear of rush keeps its own drop of dew.
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I watched too much news today particularly in the US and Europe, so I pretty much believe at the moment that the human race deserves to die out, a feeling I was much better at keeping at bay before this pandemic -- not even because of the virus, which is nobody's fault, not even the Romans (sorry, Monty Python's Life of Brian reference) but because of the vast asshattery in many corners of the globe but particularly this one. Also, they are threatening us with wintery mix tomorrow, and while I am not usually opposed to winter, I am so done with this one.
It was a fairly uneventful Monday otherwise: laundry, chores, part of a review, two walks (one for a Pokemon raid) because despite being cooler than the weekend, the weather was gorgeous. We caught up on John Oliver, whose expose on Tucker Carlson did not improve my mood -- neither did the Oscar nominations, too much Promising Young Woman, not enough One Night In Miami -- and this week's Snowpiercer (not enough Melanie again) and Debris (I'd be more invested in NBC didn't keep cancelling sci-fi shows). Frogs at Glenstone, and I must warn for porn:
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