Tadpoles

Hunching over the whispering creek,

Its breeze tickled my toes,

And raced past my loose flip-flops. 

My mother's breath pressed warm on my neck

As I lowered my tadpole net into the shallows.

The water was rocky, churning. Goosebumps arose, 

I puffed my lungs, bit my tongue,

Determined to catch the creeks whisperer, 

Dragging its slimy secrets into the summer rays. 

“Now,” she urged.

I lashed again, squinting my eyes,

But no splash came, no cheer, no childish laughter– 

Just the gnawing guilt, nibbling at my stomach,

Like a heavy fog dimming early morning light. 

“You’ll get it tomorrow,” she smiled.

I nodded and shook my finning feet,

Folding into my mother's arms, 

Warm, despite her stone-cold heartbeat.

Behind us sewn a child’s footprint 

Dissolving in mud by a timeless heat. 

The creek seemed to leave no ripples of presence. 

And the tadpoles began to look like frogs. 

I thought my net was empty, 

Yet something clung unseen. 

My mama let go, and I trudged along home,

Past dried-out daisy crowns 

And our browning orange tree,

Leaping alone into the afternoon.