Tree frog

Tree frog

They sit tight in the lit hours,
all waking as the sun gives way
to moons and bats and whistling unseen things,

then shrill their mating calls into the fresh night wind,

and awkwardly manoeuver, foot by foot
through all the tangled undergarden,

eagerly cruising trees for prey
(what insect could escape the gaze of such a wondrous eye?).

Bright day returns, and down they hunch,  
a blob of wet amphibian-stuff clinging
to whichever branch seems right. 

Once one gripped my fingers just as though I was a tree,
with feet that flapped the cool deliciousness
of living jelly on my eager quivering skin, then leapt
ungraciously onto the leaf-leaden forest floor below,
sat tight.