Mooning Past the Waning Gibbous

The wolves inside Algonquin

have tired of the toads.

The never-ending bragging ,

when it comes to their

command of oxygen—

we breathe it under water

just as good—

then mocking their silly

worship of the moon,

saying their croak is

far superior to any

howl.

All of this is

payback, for when a

wolf had watched a toad

being flattened by a wheel,

baying not

because of Luna,

but the quips

within the earshot of the

pond:

that’s why they rhyme

with road

it’s the only way they croak,

since no one wants to eat

them

even the French

will stop at frogs

You tell me

this is the most bone-

headed story you’ve ever

heard. Why you’ll never

take me near 

a provincial park—

"you’d embarrass me to

death in front of birders"—

who’d raise their crinkled

noses to the air,

at my tale of the

Bobbleheaded

Bunting , seldom adept

to lift itself

off the ground,

the disparity of its

skull that leaves it

lagging , hungry;

unable to swoop

for seed, always

eyeing starlings

snag the worms;

never inhaling the

scent that wafts aloft,

loiters like a pitted

ball, that’s pompous

from our reverence,

granting nothing

but a half-assed glow

to guide the night.

Andreas Gripp

November 13, 2025

RF Image