Ducklets flocking to their mother—
benevolence nestled between
their bones like teacups
fresh from the cupboard,
begging to be broken

Kits and kids coexisting 
as ash in the underbrush,
a periodic pantry of prey and predator 

Tadpoles pooling together
like pies rising in the oven, plump
They will grow to greatness
as vineyard into victories
unto drunk frogs and
early morning elegies

Into swansongs and out of
playing in the prairie

There are no longer playgrounds in the prairie.
There are no more elegies to give.