The Toad

Eastern American Toad

I was walking by. He was sitting there.

It was full morning, so the heat was heavy on his sand-colored

head and his webbed feet. I squatted beside him, at the edge

of the path. He didn’t move.

I began to talk. I talked about summer, and about time. The

pleasures of eating, the terrors of the night. About this cup

we call a life. About happiness. And how good it feels, the

heat of the sun between the shoulder blades.

He looked neither up nor down, which didn’t necessarily

mean he was either afraid or asleep. I felt his energy, stored

under his tongue perhaps, and behind his bulging eyes.

I talked about how the world seems to me, five feet tall, the

blue sky all around my head. I said, I wondered how it seemed

to him, down there, intimate with the dust.

He might have been Buddha— did not move, blink, or frown,

not a tear fell from those gold-rimmed eyes as the refined

anguish of language passed over him.

— Mary Oliver