Tadpole

by

Leslie Wilson

Crouching on a sandbar, I trace the tadpoles, hundreds,
in their static wiggling motion, they take over a tiny jetty
in this creek at the bottom of the hill, but also, without
real direction, without a discernible purpose or goal, like
so many bumper cars when the fair comes to the dry and
dusty field just outside of town, crashing, twisting,
refusing to heed direction from the steering wheel,
the driver, red lights flashing then green, and the horn
of clown cars, a two headed snake, the bearded lady, elephant
ears, hey lemme guess your weight, and yet, and yet,
the boys splashing at the far end, down by the bend, create
a wake, a new current which nudges a larger tadpole, already
growing four legs, onto the sandy bank, these her first
steps on shore, I press my pinky into the sand right in her
path, she steps onto my finger, I lift her up and stare
into those fresh black eyes and hope within the chaos,
always this force of change, this intention.

 

 

 

Leslie Wilson, Ph.D., teaches creative writing at Pepperdine University, where she has directed the creative writing program, the literary magazine, WordFest, and the Fall Literary Arts Festival. She is also Editor-in-Chief of Americana: The Institute for the Study of American Popular Culture, which publishes both creative writing and American Studies scholarship. Her most recent publications have appeared or will appear in The Adirondack Review, The Oregon Literary Review, Barnwood and Expressionists.

 

 

 

 

 

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