I’d spread me

like a cloak

across the

roily mudpond

a dark

grey morning,

and let you

dance across,

but the soaked soil

of the puddle’s

stark far shore

would probably

be lost in fog,

and bullfrog voices

bobbling from the pond

would croak

cross warnings:

“Wade.” “Don’t

cloak-dance.” “Wade.”

Because the bobbling

bullfrogs know,

and teach,

that soon or late

the fog lifts, and

the shore you reach

by dancing

is surely not

the same shore

you reach

when you wade.