Only once did I shoot frogs at Coleman’s pond
with my big brother’s BB gun, aiming from the bow
of an old white rowboat. The evening was overcast,
a forecast of rain, and I remember their eyes
above the lily pads, how they slowly closed
and all croaking ceased, and how the frogs
slowly sank into darkness. Coleman’s pond seemed
empty and silent for that moment. It started
to pour, and I had to row in.
Winner, Grades 10-12 Poetry
