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Many long summers ago, growing up on a small-town "poor man's" farm, little boy Ed had

Glassine bulbs
peering cautiously;
not a movement is seen
beneath the placid surface

An occasional blink perhaps,
a reaction to a slight shadow
from the side or behind;
quick instincts inherent,
nowhere to go but down.

Stillness of the air
interrupted by the hollow splash
as the web-footed aquatic gymnast
looked madly for a place of escape.

This slippery fast critter
could not shake
the determined agile,
practiced hands,
a true hunter of this
cammofloged ranid.

Immperceptivly recoiling
thickening palms;
and clawlike fingers
relaxation and timing
I make my digits nimble
in anticipation of the conquest.

One quick plunge
into the stagnant pool,
whirlpools form
stirring the sand
and blanket silt.

I catch by memory
never seeing my prey;
Suddenly a recognizable motion,
a slight skim just under the wavelets

Hand cocks back, no hesitant tension
ready... stay on the shade side"
PLLUNK, sluuush, only a minute gap in time;

A new treasure to the kid, as he
holds his first real frog;
gently noting the feel
the strength of thier legs as
they protude from a small boy's palm.

How was that trip. King,
we saw quite a few,
caught some good size
how do you like those eyes?

This afternoon late spring,
a perfectly clear day,
and a little boy and his dog
learned one of their 1st meanings
of this thing called a frog.