The Grove


Softly, the leaves whisper,

As they move aside to let the wind pass.

Obligingly the water parts,

To allow a magnificent swan to dive into the deep.


Meanwhile, a tiny frog hops across the leaves.

The frog knows not what will happen.

The frog does not know that he is being killed.

And slowly, oh so slowly, as the poison seeps through his skin

Does the young frog's life 



There will be more frogs; 

His cousins, brothers and sisters remain.

But as they are poisoned as well, 

By the once pristine lake,

Their homes are disappearing

For the leaves are gone,

As the trees are killed.


The trees,

The ancient guardians and protectors.

The frogs know that the trees are dying,

Being killed by some foreigner,

Some fungus new to their forest.

The frogs would have welcomed the fungus,

But they do not understand why their homes are disappearing,

Why the soft bed of moist leaves exists no longer. 


A man is on the path now,

He sees a swan complete her dive,

And a young frog hopping along.

The man has heard horrible tales,

tales that this forest is dying.

He has heard that the water is killing the frogs,

And that the trees are dying as well.

He looks around at the forest one more.

"It is good," he thinks, "that these silly stories are not true"

As the smoke from his small cigarrette

Winds lazily into the air.





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