This is one of my favourite poems; it is by the wonderful writer Joseph Bruchac. I love it for its humanity to even the smallest creatures.

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 lights 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 to too.

For others waxing lyrical in June, please see here: http://form.pbase.com/viewtopic.php?f=16&t=48363