Don’t leave us yet.  Remain a little longer.
Flee little leaf frog, tree frog, brook frog!
Flee deeper into the forest, follow
the mountain’s steep incline to sky, flee upstream
to where the water runs fast and clear and cold.
You are accustomed to precarious perches.  Still,
you must flee with your quick thighs, your sticky feet.
Flee the loggers, the builders of dams, stoppers
of water.  Flee the chytrid –
dread fungus that renders your tender
skin unable to sip oxygen, moisture.  Hold on
until we can mount a rescue mission.  Little frog –
Your call may only have been heard once
by humans who never even saw you.  Do not go
the way of the flame-colored golden toad,
the southern gastric brooding frog, the one
whose mothers swallowed their eggs
to hatch them safe inside their bellies – not
enough – both lost to us forever. Wait
for those who will come to sit and watch and
know you.  They will arrive with tools
to preserve the croak or peep or bark
with which you call to your mate
as the sun settles below the treeetops.  They will note
the mosquitos, flies or worms you snatch
with your tape-like tongue, roll back
deep into the ancient cave of your mouth.
They will record the names of the trees you climb,
the leaves you hide among, your preference
for still or flowing water, how you breed and lay
your jellied eggs.  They will watch your young enact
the miracle of transformation from tadpole to frog.
With luck, they’ll learn enough to save you.
If not, their knowledge will be gathered,
assembled into tomes to stand
as a memorial to you and your kind
for those who will come after we are all gone.