Song of a Spadefoot Toad

WE STAND by the patch of grass marked his.

But he is no longer subject
to the whims of this bewildering sphere,
with its sound waves, cancers, specific gravity, spring,
where we still live, where ostrich chicks
before hatching sing through the eggshell,
where filarial worms in bloodstream darkness
know when it’s night, and drift to the skin
of their host, so mosquitoes
will drink them and bear them away.
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