Nov 1967 • Vol. XXIX No. 5 Poetry |

Rainy-Season: Sub-Tropics

GIANT TOAD: I am too big, too big by far. Pity me. My eyes bulge and hurt. They are my one great beauty, even so. They see too much, above, below, and yet there is not much to see. The rain has stopped. The mist is gathering on my skin in drops. The drops run down my back, run from the comers of my down-turned mouth, run down my sides and drip beneath my belly. Perhaps the droplets on my mottled hide are pretty, like dewdrops, silver on a moldering leaf? They chill me through and through. I feel my colors changing now, my pigments gradually shudder and shift over. Now I shall get beneath that overhanging ledge. Slowly. Hop. Two or three times more, silently. That was too far. I'm standing up. The lichen's gray, and rough to my front feet. Get down. Tum facing out, it's safer. Don't breathe until the snail gets by. But we go traveling the same weathers. Swallow the air and mouthfuls of cold mist. Give voice, just once. O how it echoed from the rock! What a profound, a

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Night Riders

By Jean Farley

GIANT TOAD: I am too big, too big by far. Pity me. My eyes bulge and hurt. They are my one great beauty, even so. They see too much, above, […]

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