Little frogs are hopping

Little frogs are hopping
from the pond to the weeds,
hopping in the headlight beams
across wet asphalt through strings of drizzle,
hopping where my car can only squash them
so I stop.

You take my hand.
“Thank you,” you say.
You like frogs.

There is another route, an extra mile.
I back up, turn around.
“More cars will come,” I say.
Again you take my hand.
“That’s on them,” you say.

We do what we can do.
And maybe, just maybe,
we spared a prince.

…..

First published in Your Daily Poem