Here is a poem my cousin, Suzie, from San Jose, California wrote. I think its beautiful set among fields and farm. And, the other thing that is wonderful about the poem is the compassion given to the frogs trying to make their way across the road.
The poem has no title.
I feel like an ant among humans, a little out of place, but too awestruck to move out of the way.
The peace and tranquility is amazing, and I swear, if the mosquitoes didn’t eat me alive, I’d lay
out under the stars all night.
This evening we scooted the frogs out of the road so they wouldn’t get squished by the
random passerby. At dusk, millions of frogs cross the road from the soy bean fields to the
grass, and many get caught before they make it. In daylight, you can see flat little frog tiles dot
the road, and I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try to save a few.
At home, the most amazing thing you can expect to see is the contrast of hot pink flowers
bursting out from a giant bushel of green leaves. It stops me dead in my tracks every time as if
it’s the first, and last, time I’ll see that kind of beauty. That and buttermilk poppies; bright,
playful and vast along the most barren stretches of freeway.
But here, there’s time to take it all in and appreciate the slow pace and beauty of the lush clusters of trees along the waterways, between one farm and another.