Toads Don’t Fly
On toad and frog hunt, evening this,
A Friday, tenth of August bliss,
Two thousand eighteen. Reminisce
When katydids chirp and beetles hiss
And lights illumine night’s abyss
Where sandy shore and water kiss:
One cloudless night in August-time
When people talk and poets rhyme,
Two kids went searching on the sand
With keenest eye and nimble hand
To find some spasmic-leaping type
On which to tender swiftest swipe.
The twain trekked on with buckets both
In expectation’s solemn oath
That they would populate their pails
With amphibians that lack their tails;
Be toads or frogs or what their names
To have fun catching were their aims!
When suddenly from out the eye
A jumper spotted, a small fry,
And just as quick as Jack might jump
Did Maddy leap and make a thump
While falling to her hands and knees
And caught the toad or frog with ease!
Well, I exaggerate a bit;
Her catching skills were not yet fit.
But soon she owned more expertise
And critters plenty did she seize
With nimbler hand and keener eye;
Bright light at night was her ally.
But Hannah, too, advanced her skill
To snare amphibs for jolly thrill.
And jolly thrill she had, had she:
When e’er a toady type carefree
Betakes itself by leaps and hops
She dashes till the hopping stops.
The twain did under lights by night
Go canvasing for festive sight
Of hoppers upon which to pounce
And into buckets them to bounce
A-tallying them as they went:
How many jumping type were pent.
Accompanying these hunters twain
Was old man Jeff, a bit insane,
But making as much merriment
As they. Now and again he sent
A hunter girl to grab a toad,
“There’s one!” She’d nab for her payload
“Look! There’s another! Over there!”
They dashed upon it without care
And fought till one secured the prize.
From one, delight; from one, but sighs.
Even a nearby wandering lad
Saw one that one girl shortly had.
The old man barked, “I found a frog,
What used to be a pollywog!
Right here.” So Maddy made her way
And grabbed it but it went astray!
Cried Maddy, “That one flew up high!
It’s just a bug, Jeff. Toads don’t fly!”
Soon after that did all three sit
Upon a log and think a bit.
’Twas time to quit and contemplate
Just how their catch they’d liberate.
It wasn’t long till plans were hatched;
Their contemplations clearly matched.
They counted, each, their springing type
And christened them their monotype,
Their nomenclature, “Bill” or “James;”
They cast them down and called their names
And off they hopped, each little fry,
Upon the sand, for toads don’t fly!
Jeff Kemper has been a biology teacher, biblical studies instructor, editor, and painting contractor. He lives in York County, Pennsylvania.
Rarely have I found creative rhyming so amusingly captivating. The story may be stretched to the breaking point but the fun shines through nonetheless with the same brilliance as the sun when it reappears after a total eclipse. In short, Jeff has gifted us with a rare treat.
Toads don’t fly.
Indeed!
Yes, James, Kemper has gifted us with a pearl of great worth, where good sense and rationality take second place. This is a rare thing, and I can but echo your approval. Sometimes a wave defines an entire ocean. Let us all retire to the shore of Kemper Sound.