Spring Song

This month swelitoads begin to run,
Not as shad run, bearing their spawn
Lightly, smoothly, nor as the bluefish slides
Dreamlike through his own
Dream, but as a stone in mud
Moves, or does not move, as the drift decides.

This month—this April—some toad begins again
His awkward run over the stones and mud
He looks like, taking in
Through a mouth whose solid bone
Seems made to break stone
Whatever keeps him going. Though the hook
That takes a shad lightly, smoothly, cannot crack
That mouth, he will be caught, will swell
On land into a perfect ball,
Will ride in his death the press
Of his belly as white
As a virgin’s breast,
And the fisherman will find
The meat inside as white
As milk, as sweet
To his mouth as to a mind
That has fed on mud and stones
A song can be, sung in the bones.