High in the cottonwood branches the tiny gray tree frogs unseen are singing.
You follow the song one pond after another deeper and deeper into the
March woods and when you finally find the place you sit down and listen for
a long time as the song falls on you like rain before, alas, the chorus goes still.
So you sit then in the stillness listening in the space the song left, waiting,
and there you hear the small mysterious sounds of little things growing,
pushing up thru the old leaves where the water holds the sky.