Blazing beams of fire flies,
flutter viciously past my eyes.
Summer night's air is ripe with
the scent of swamp.

Frogs freak dance croak-
S'pload toad throat soak-
In time with the slug slime,
slithering in the dark.

In the wet grass it died,
shoved off the pavement to the side-
where the cars whizzed by close
As its guts dripped from its nose.

Its death was more than grim
And it did not die by spear for meat
But as it bounded across the street
The choice was me or him.