THROAT OF THE POND

by: Eileen Malone

First, the gritty croak of one frog

grants permission, starts a round

rowdy, bursting

reminiscent of Orpheus

who made music so aboriginal

it coaxed rocks and trees to sway

insects to stride water

iris feathered seeds fly, whirr

mosquitoes slurp, sip nectar

beetles buzz, tadpoles hatch

it's happening, we can no more

separate the music from the sounds

than spice breath from dandelions

or worm-fragrant wind from reeds

within the light that falls

the sun actually falls to its knees

genuflects and slurps noisily

from the throat of the pond

that sings itself, sings itself

raucously ardent.