The Toad

The Toad

A cricket saws out its steady song in defiance of the restless traffic sounds. From my chair on the back porch only a small patch of sky is visible, but it has the moon in it. The moon looks full, though I’m never certain about this – is it maybe just a day away from spherical perfection? A parade of comic book images of werewolves, howling canines and bat silhouettes claims my mind before I become aware of the toad.

The toad is neatly positioned in a toad-sized patch of silver moonlight, sitting in the hunched-upright way of toads, unblinking, motionless. I know it will move when it needs to, yet I find its stillness a bit unnerving. “Do something, toad!” I say – not so loudly that the neighbours can hear – but the toad does not oblige. I wave a hand and jiggle a foot, but still the toad doesn’t move.

A breeze springs up. It sends a leaf skittering and scraping across the porch tiles. The toad hops off into the shadows.

full moon –

a leaf haiku

is blown away