In summer, there was a bloom of tadpoles
in the bathtub against the pasture fence,
the sludge at the bottom of the cracked trough
seething with bodies the size of my nails.
I hauled out the old fish tank, dumping net
after net full into the dark water,
until I had dredged up every last one.
I watched them teeming against the glass while
the cicadas’ keening ratcheted up,
then poured them all back. But it was too late;
not a single one lived, smothered beneath
the press. In love with the glisten, they pour
until they trip over their vestigial tail,
enthusiasm trumping better sense.