Tadpoles and Squashed frogs
My pond brims with ten thousand tadpoles.
The water unclear, blackened by their mass.
Bumping, wriggling, frenzied confusion.
Each vying for the right to survive.
To be more than just a beginning.
To find their feet, outgrow their juvenile tail
Eel like some spark as they collide
And rise to the top webbed feet forming.
I follow one for a while and muse as to
whether it is strong enough to survive;
Only to be distracted by the flicker of another.
Its tail but a stub; this one jumps out at me.
As quick as the flash that drew my attention
I plunge a fist amidst the sea of primeval creations;
For fear my prize would sink back into the darkness.
Slippery and not yet fully in my grasp, I retreat.
Unfurling my hand, I thoughtlessly discard the immature.
Intent only on my prize, and to suppress its escape.
Separated and enclosed in my hand I peer in,
And it blinks out at me with mutual mistrust.
I study its form, small yet nearing adult perfection.
It feels malevolent to me, a wet and clammy apparition.
This thought frog is an ugly beast I declare.
And under my foot I crush its existence.