The old man
must have stopped our car
two dozen times to climb out
and gather into his hands
the small toads blinded
by our lights and leaping,
live drops of rain.

The rain was falling,
a mist about his white hair
and I kept saying
You can’t save them all
accept it, get back in
wev’e got places to go.

But, leathery hands full
of wet brown life
knee deep in summer
roadside grass,
he just smiled and said
They have places to go too.

Autore: Joseph Bruchac