Year-Leap Poem by John Beaton

This field in winter forms a wetland, quiet
except for hushing rainfall, rushing hail,
a breeze that, fussed with snowflakes, seems to sigh at
the calls of robin, chickadee, and quail,
and swishing noises as a buck picks through
a copse of wild roses, red with thorns,
briar stems, and rose-hips, which he'll chew
as velvet slowly silences his horns.

And then the frogs! These mud-lark choristers,
raucous for amplexus, now rejoice—
last night we heard no chirrups, chirps, or chirrs;
tonight they'd overwhelm a stentor's voice—
and, swamping winter with their song, they bring
good news: the year is sound, and crouched to spring.