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Memories of Monkey Bridge

on summer days 
when heat rippled over
the lawn and jewel-like gardens
momma would emerge 
from the front door, our only door, 
with a huge white wicker basket.
papa carried the blanket 
and cushions.   we would all climb 
into the old black ford, 
with the shades, which to my 
young mind were quite elegant; 
and go to Monkey Bridge.
deep in the country side,  the span 
crossed a shallow river clear, cool 
rippling gently over a stone bottom.
this is where we would while away 
the hottest hours.  Adventuring, 
rolling in the grass, wading in the river 
and frog hunting.  

There was a community 
of leopard frogs living in the shallows 
away from the swirls of faster water 
spending their days sitting on lush 
grassy banks hunting for bugs.
Lunch came in mid afternoon
so we had time to stalk and catch our prey.
Michele and I would wander down stream
eyes ever searching for a movement 
of a green striped creature.  we would spy it out, 
then creep up on it slowly, well, as slowly as a 
two year old and a five year old could muster.  
with one bound we would scoop it up, 
hold it tight and dance about screeching,
”we caught it” at the top of our lungs. 

I held out my had staring at the poor frog 
it being in petrified shock.  
Michele  jumped around, “give it me, give it me”.  
momma looked over at the fracas
and said, “let your sister hold it  for a while Patti”    
begrudgingly I put the frog into her hand, 
luckily it was still stunned.  Michele closed 
her grubby little mitt around it speaking 
to it softly “nice fwog, good fwog, slowly

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