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BULL FROG BEND
I bounce across the swinging bridge -
rapids swell below
bullfrogs bellow to their lady loves,
thunder rumbles in the distance.
Early June rains cools my warm skin.
Pine straw quiets my steps.
I seek the shelter of the Thompson cabin.
Sycamore, dogberry, and cedar keep secrets.
Hush, and you may hear the soft moccasin padding
of the Creeks who walked these paths,
built homes, shaped tools and baskets from these woods.
At Blue Hole I pause,
remember summers when brothers
skinny dipped in cold spring water,
and splashed Sister in her blue and white pinafore
for watching them from the bank.
Judge Thompson's cabin -
deeper in than I remember -
at a campsite, I pick up charred wood,
recall weenie roasts.
Perhaps, the Creeks turned wild turkeys
on their spits.
The cabin finally in sight,
I take the stairs of the porch
two at a time,
peer into the window
The Judge's pine rocker site empty.
I remember stories he told us children.
He always ended with these words:
"I'd like to leave my forwarding address
with St. Peter
and come on back,
to Bull Frog Bend."
The storm over, bull frogs
court their lady loves,
I hum to myself as I sway
across the swinging bridge.
Elizabeth M. Van Hook - 2004
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