Risen from half frozen muck,
peepers give voice to awakening soil,
chanting a sharp, piping whistle.
I hear a thousand sleigh bells
or an invasion of spectral creatures,
but frogs sing loudly and fast only to mate.
Tiny carolers bearing dark crosses
on their backs, they remain invisible
but for sound, but for faith.
The pulsing chorus is my creed, a promise
kept yearly by this worshiping choir,
a shrill, clear call of hope.
