Sit silent in the chorus of Frog songs.

dripping heavy, the Creek runs whitewash.

 

In these moments.

I can hear the land weep.

In Joy.

In Pain.

In Need.

 

The Frogs regain their voice.

and we sing in unison.

with shaky words

and sore backs.

 

and disappear in the wash

of

Sacred Waters.

 

How blessed are we

to still hear these,

composed beneath the Summer Moon,

 

HOME.