Every year the frogs get in our pool.
Each night, a grinding chorus,
throaty and pleasing, through the window
as night falls.
They’re all going to die, my husband says,
they’ll get sucked through the drain.
It ruins it for him. Not me,
I love their dark, wet sound.
It doesn’t seem so different from our fate,
finite hours of singing,
filling the night with our voices
for as long as we can.
[image: Wetland Beauty | Kathleen (Fawn) Patricia Chute]