It was a quaint summer’s day.
The sky smiled a benign blue.
A raspy wind teased tousled heads
And the vibrant kites they flew.
And the tousled heads that didn’t fly kites
Or play a game of hide-and-seek,
Were not engaged by a game of ball,
But by, the magic at the creek.
The creek in itself, was an exaggeration.
It had less water than it had hype,
For it was a mere trickle by the main road,
Caused by a crack in the municipal pipe.
I was among the bunch of kids that day
Assembled there to verify
Reports of baby fishes spewed forth by the creek,
With my own credulous eye.
And with the enthusiasm of little kids
Who’ve never lived by the lake or sea,
We promptly reached out with jars and tins
To take home pet fish for free.
I clutched the rusty tin close to my heart.
My fishes smelled rather foul
So I put the tin on my window sill
Until I could find a respectable fish bowl.
But like most tousled heads with fleeting minds,
With a thousand thoughts coming through per minute,
Other thoughts soon replaced the rusty tin
And the bunch of fishes in it.
Until, one day I was beckoned by
A throaty croak from the rusty tin,
And was amazed to see that the baby fishes had grown
Into the couple of frogs that lay within.
Mother said something about tadpoles
And life cycles at their peak.
But I stuck to my logical explanation that,
It was because of the magic at the creek!
