I put my truck into reverse and began to pull out of the driveway. That’s when I saw you—sitting there on the hood in the light of the full moon. Nothing but a silhouette, legs sprawled across the windshield. Skin the color of bones, eyes beady black abysses. You’re a little tree-frog, quick and sticky.
I get out of the truck and try to grab you. My hands leap to enclose you but you slip away, hopping across my hood. I run to the other side for a second chance, but you dodge my grasping palms to avoid confrontation. I don’t want to fight either! Can’t you see that? I know you prefer flight so why don’t you flee from me? Not this problem. You scurry along the side of my door as I try to set you free. Minutes pass as you crawl over my truck.
C’mon, jump off while you have the chance. I’m just going to hurt you. You’ll cling onto my sides and think you’re safe, but once I gather speed, the wind will peel you off and send you crashing into the asphalt. I’ll flatten you in my wake without even realizing it. Your splayed carcass will be ground into the street and leave no impression on my tires. I’ll drive on and you’ll be too flattened to ever hop up and cling to something else.
So jump off now, little frog. I’ll bring you to a tree before I get rolling. It’ll be nice there, stable. There are roots to keep it still and strong. The branches are thick, the leaves are wide. A plethora of places to play. You can choose any tree, and I’ll take you there. Anywhere, but here. The windshield of my truck is nowhere to cling.