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"Cowabunga!" she cried
and leaped for the moon as frogs travel lilypads, the world wishywashy beneath and nothing behind staying put. But when she fell back against the fence, the moon reigning fool above, her legs twitched, eyes bulged: the cud, no doubt, had come. The moon cannot be jumped; there is nothing more to do. She lay by the pond, her nose over the brink, staring at spotted dark frogs. They skipped and hopped a white wavy moon, leaping lily to lily to land. Her chin on the shore and depression quite clear, "Cowabunga!" she mooned sans joy.
Lera Baker Smith
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