Who can remember the song of frogs
in late September, when it's crickets
filling up the woods with tin
contralto? It's the hum of stars
that swing the season into fall,
a shift of chords. And then
the year just keeps on improvising,
full-moon fingerings on snow.
And then - remember how they come
again: one peeper, then the wood frogs,
a thousand invisible bassmen, each one
tuning, warming up, quickening the beat.
By April, all those jazzmen playing
their throats out for spring.