As light fades
over the pond.
Frog song emerges;
one, then two,
five, then twelve.
Dozens sing.
Hundreds harmonize.
Thousands send an acoustic aura.
The musical swells
rise and fall,
synchronize,
then fall apart.

Each male chants,
“Come. Pick me.
My genes are splendid.”

And the females too,
hasten to frogsong
sung seasonally plumb.

And still,
if she is seized
from behind,
rough, rude thumbs
hooked into armpits,
she sings again:
either, “Yes. Yes,”
or “No, release me.”
Wrong breed?
Wrong species?
Deformed sperm?

Males release, mostly,
if told to.

The sound is not a murmuration.
(I looked it up.)
It is more a susurration,
rising
and falling–
a weak repeating pattern
that screams
into the otherwise
still night–
“Seize me.
Spill seed.”
Afresh, the cycle begins.
Sit still.