perfect toad
I've told people that living out here in the desert
is a lot like living on an island in the northeast atlantic ocean
and they think I'm nuts.
I'm not talking about clapboard houses on a tree lined street with a view of the bay.
Im talking about rough grey sea and rocky shoreline.
no stores. no cars. Just 14 people, 20 horses and 250 sheep.
Summer parched grass and trees made into midgets from the winds.
Seaweed is as confoundingly beautiful to me as cactus and tumbleweeds.
Ive seen deer swimming in the ocean
heads thrown back. antlers bobbing.
Out here in the desert there are toads
that go 4 feet down into the ground and wait for the rain.
I like that. the determination involved.
While I was watering my zinnia pots the other day
sure enough a toad pushed its way out
of the hard packed dirt and up onto my wet cool ground.
how long had he been clawing his way up?
a week? an hour?
there he was, a plump perfect toad.
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© 2000-2004 by Bud Scrape