A Toad

It rumbles through dusk, slowly kicking stones, a sifting song beneath, it’s met with little cheers— flitting beats, bioluminescent-flecked glow. The channel of a toad rounds—is magic yet, what seems in colors, swallowing plane, surely sings.

Oh moisture of cool on stone is why it lingers, soft and wide; your breath speaks less than I imagined. Your back settled, a moist place to rest, yet dreams are endless, shaded with light through masked warmth.

Glistening sparkles around the edge; it beats in heart resting as sound— nor further apart than animals. The night beckons, caught within, and you, secret from now, wander towards where tongues flow, your pulse does not dissipate or extend— just when it is night.

You know the glowing scabs— upon thought, we built anew, paint exploring clouds, still long gone become far—bursting breadth as we sleep. Call it a dream of landscape unseen,
a toad croaks back; who invites, knowing well to evade—a gentle bond.

• Marianne Moore