Here I am. The water whistles as the golden leaves of autumn brush against its surface.
The pattering rain keeps beat as it smashes against the bridge above my head.
The sky and its clouds are dull and gauzy, but my skin glows in the darkness.
All too soon it's over. The sky is no longer peaceful; the clouds begin to rumble.
I hunch down against the bridge's side, trying to keep away from the cold bullets of water, but
The wind shifts and the rain begins to pelt me from the West.
I run as the stream water starts to toss and turn, like little waves on a tiny ocean.
The storm passes and now it is winter. I walk through the light of the now visible sun.
Seeing no leaves, green or golden, I watch the bare tree branches swaying stiffly in the chill breeze.
I wrap my arms around myself as the hairs on my arms straighten up into the air.
The stream is still now, stiller than I had ever seen it. Pebbles rest at the bottom, lonely and cold.
I gasp. On the stream’s shore, a tadpole flops pathetically on its side.
I scoop it up in my hands and start walking him toward the water.
I stop, and look down at the solemn stones waiting to be picked up and tossed back into the depths.
I place him in my pocket and run. I bring him home to a house basking in the warmth of springtime, Bees and birds flying overhead in the morning light. I place my frog in a bowl of water and
We fall asleep as the summer night surrounds us, hot moisture collecting on my skin and his new home.