Blue Crickets and Tree Frogs
I step out this morningthe mountains are gone
low clouds
slate and pink and gold
rise up from the meadows
where the Flatirons stood
only last night
A chirping in the Ponderosa
sounded like a tree frog
crazy, but the air flashed
humid and smelled of Oleander
my lips, whistling for Coda
tasted of salt
And I knew it couldn't be the sea
watching my little read husky
roll in a skiff of snow
elated, under the pines
It was a bird or an insect
whose name I don't recall
ceying into the night
perhaps
Dreaming of the sea
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