Ponds in the Sonoran Desert
Stand in the middle of one
But not know it
The ponds,
are usually,
dry.
Inches below your feet
Frogs are asleep
Heartbeats slowed
To once,
twice,
per minute.
Lying dormant
Waiting
For the water
Without which
Their lives are incomplete
They're not,
fully,
themselves.
Many months sleeping
Within the earth
And suddenly
The rain,
comes.
A hundred pairs of eyes
Pop from the mud
And a hundred voices
Call across,
the moonlit water,
into the night.