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The Pebble Frog Poem

By Rachel Geer | Observer Contributor

The pebble frog, small, round, grey

curls itself into a ball, looking,

for all the world, like

a pebble before casting itself

down the steeps of its mountain home.

It gives gravity, and vector dynamics,

control. A little

Anti-Sisyphus, the frog’s 

goal is to reach the bottom with

as little fuss as possible.

It bounces off

even sharp surfaces without injury.

When the ground levels off enough (friction

overcoming momentum),

it uncurls, unharmed,

OK with its new surroundings.

A girl is not like a pebble frog.

When she missteps, she’ll not

roll safely, efficiently downhill.

She’ll bleed all the way down

and lie, stunned, on the rocks where the ground levels

out and the friction from her bruised body

overcomes gravity’s pull. She’ll

stagger when she stands,

OK with her new surroundings anyway.

After all, if the mythical

Malfeasant had had his own way,

he’d have come down the mountain

long ago and let that boulder

be.

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