by James Richards
Frogs on fire. Dried and pinned to newsprint. Legs stretched straight. Eyes open, blind. That was the fun we had in the June-marsh outside the fence of Farmington's amusement park. Fists full of frogs, cream bellies bulging— theirs and ours. Me, Buddy, and Clara flinging them, watching them fall, accompanied by the roller-coaster's roar, and the scream of spirits. We all fell that summer. Was it the kiss inside the skeleton of a car hidden in tall grass, the cigarette butts we sucked? I ran through the fields seeing only green, tasting smoke-stain and Clara's spit—real laughter catching up with me. Falling never crossed my mind; bones and blood were evidence, not fears. Grass stains, scabs— proof that happiness is coming down.
