And tell me this: of all the roads you know,
Which is the quickest way to get to Hades?
—Aristophanes
What the hell’s the deal
with these suicidal, daredevil
frogs, who insist on hopping out
onto the highway, half hidden
by fog and mist, scantly illuminated
by headlights? I hate the squishy
pop of them, these slow-moving pale
river dwellers out for the thrill of their
short, rain-blessed lifetime.
I look like a drunk driver, so I stop
playing tag with the frogs. I avoid
the larger ones, the ones I can actually see
before I hear the soft thunk. I have little to say
about the living and dying of the smaller ones;
they are too slow, too dazed, too intent
on a strange mission. It feels fated, this asphalt massacre,
and I am sorry to have to hit them.
We all have a role to play: theirs,
to cross I-93 with froggy abandon,
and mine, to make the survivors feel they earned it.
Well written. I experienced the same with garter snakes on the highway when I lived in Saskatchewan.