there's a girl that stands at the end of a pond
barely nine or ten
and as she glances over cool blue she hears their song
the frogs, harmonizing, just in tune with their great friends the herons

she whips her head in wonder
at the cattails swaying in the breeze
while her arms swing up in a blunder
composing her own unseen symphony

the girl turns fourteen
and returns to the lake where magic once grew
and as she glances over cool blue she can't help but lean,
noticing with horror, "oh, there's a new pimple or two"

the frogs sing joyfully of her triumphant return
but in her steely haze not a sound can be heard