As the gloss gathers on our tent
in Monterey my sister curls
in a crescent at my side—
a flashlight casts us in a golden mist.

Her hair collects in a teenage nest.
I will remember to braid it tomorrow.
She snores away the day’s hike
and her mouth gapes like her baby face.

I read Cannery Row and
recall chasing frogs with her,
all of our girlhood trapped in the space
between a cupped palm and a rock.

In our younger summers,
a smattering of legged pebbles
in a muggy garden
were the safest company.

Now they sing outside the tent,
and I consider going to find them,
wondering if my raincoat’s pockets
would fit all I know I need.

I would catch a thousand frogs—
loud ones for music, rough ones for touch
and trade them for a single moment
of knowing she was not afraid—

I glance at her sleeping shoulder,
I contemplate the wet air.
We made it far enough
to hear them sing for us all night.