It was dark to the point where shapes
lost color and then form,
just blurs of shadow against shadow
against us,
shining in the moon and rain.
Long grass wrapping around legs,
Water sticking to skin,
to clothes,
to hair,
like spiderwebs in late evening dew.

The peepers hummed through the night,
and below their music,
the toads trilled a softer call.

And we walked in the grass
out to the road, where we danced
on the dark pavement, our world
shining with infinite tiny droplets,
the single street-light as our spotlight,
dimming the stars.

And no cars drove by
because the earth is dead at 11 pm,
but for the toads and the peepers
and us.

And I could have stayed out,
and you could have stayed out,
but it was late
so you walked to your car,
and I walked to my room.

The shut of my door
and the hum of your engine
clashed over the melody of the frogs,
and the mist in my hair dried
and your headlights cancelled
out the glow of the streetlight,
and the silence in my room fell
stagnant and heavy, folding down on me
over and over and over.

And yes,
there are things that I need to address,
because one should not be dependent
on air thick with rain
and the sounds of the swamp,

But now it is 2 am, and the wind is warm
and the rain has slowed, and I have opened
my window, and the peepers and the toads are still out,
tnd they still are singing,
Their throaty calls and high-pitched chirps
colliding and harmonizing.

And there is something
about the starlight
and the song of the frogs melting
through the crack in my window
that breathes youth
into the stillness of the air.

No one could say that the earth is dead
on these spring nights,
And no one could say that I am either,
because as I lie on my bed
and you wind your way home
on the empty roads,
the frogs keep singing,
and we all come back to life.

---

This poem by Pingeon, a Lincoln resident and rising senior at the Rivers School, was recognized with a Massachusetts Scholastic Writing Award this past school year. “We were studying Native American authors including more modern-day poets like Luci Tapahonso and also older, unspecified Navajo poets. The assignment was to write a poem that had Native American themes. I chose the theme of nature, obviously,” she said. “I wrote the poem all at once, but I keep a journal and I got inspiration for some of my descriptions from past journal entries.”