THE WATERFALL FROGS
there is no sound of frogs, in the forest tonight,
no harsh growl, whoop & chuckle, no singular notes,
no barking, beeping repetitions, no popping,
no wet weather yaps, heard above the sound of
rushing water, no puffing in & out, of the wet
throats of frogs, no frogs perched on boulders
beside the falls, frog mating calls are absent, so
the search is on, by the zoologists in khaki shirts &
vinyl boots, slipping on the mossy rocks, with their
identification booklets & crude tape recorders, to
find the waterfall torrent frogs, the stream & litter
dwelling frogs, a frog to hang a hope on, the stony
creek frog, or the burrowing in & whirring tree
frog, we dip our nets into streams, to determine
the presence, of transparent tadpole populations,
thriving in tiny ponds, shadowed by the weathered
rocks, thrown out over the wriggling, as frogs
retract like waterfalls, were last seen frogs, or
missing & restricted frogs, frogs disappearing from
natural systems, as rapid as water falling, with no
frog calls surrounding it, the silence crashing into
valleys, changes are atmospheric, the australian
bush turns ultraviolet, rays filter down through
rippling water, into eggs & tadpoles, frogs
disintegrate, flow lines shrink back into stone &
frogs shrivel up, fossilised glue on the rock face, in
remote frog habitats, difficult to access, perhaps
frogs still exist, getting under things, squeezing
into open earth, to dry up or to hibernate, soft
centred & dreamy mouthed, wet & deliciously cold
frogs, frogs the first to go, mountain mist & fragile
frogs, future forests without frogs, future childhoods |
