by Tai Carmen
Every spring the frogs hatch in our pool.
Each night a grinding chorus through the window,
throaty and pleasing, as dusk falls.
“They’re all going to die when we take off the cover,”
my husband says. 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.