Frogs by Norman McCaig
Frogs sit more solid
than anything sits.
In mid-leap they are parachutists falling
in a free fall. They die on roads
with arms across their chests and heads high.
I love frogs that sit
like Buddha, that fall without parachutes, that die
like Italian tenors.
Above all, I love them because,
pursued in water, they never
panic so much that they fail to make stylish triangles
with their ballet dancer’s
legs.
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