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Birdfoot's Grampa

The old man

must have stopped our car

two dozen times to climb out

and gather into his hands

the small toads blinded

by our light and leaping,

live drops of rain.

The rain was falling,

a mist about his white hair

and I kept saying

you can't save them all,

accept it, get back in

we've got places to go.

But, leathery hands full

of wet brown life,

knee deep in the summer

roadside grass,

he just smiled and said

they have places to go, too.

by

Joseph Bruchac