If I close my eyes now, I can still see themcanopied by the visor of my sunhat:three children islanded on a narrow rimof earth between the huge crack-willow thatthey squat before, hushed, poised to net a frog,and the pond the frog will jump to (it got away)a glass its dive will shatter. The unbroken imagepleases my mind's eye with its density,such thick crisscross of tree-trunk, earth, and tall grassI see no breach, no source for the light that steeps itbut a blue burning in the pond's green glass.
The grass withered, the tree blew down, earth caughtthe frog, the children grew. Sky's ice-blue flameteased along the wick it would consume.
