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By John I. Blair

In almost April
Resonating churrs
Vibrate the night air.

Puffed up with passion,
The toads are singing
Everywhere I look.

To the spawning spot
Where they congregate
Measures half a mile,

A jarring journey
For a toad to take
Hop by hop by hop.

But that distant ditch
Is where toads have hatched
Since it was a brook

And the current curb
Streets and houses place
Will not make them stop.

2002 John I. Blair

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