Beowulf’s last word means most eager for glory,
though the gulf coast toad seeks anonymity
and crickets juicy as mangos. Warted
like some goblin dumpling, your soft stone

sits in moss-slick ditches, your eyelids
helming black mirrors to marsh grass
where Grendel might burble up
from salted Texas jetties. Teach us

your humility, jumping plum, rubbing
between streams without seeking power
beyond the kingdom of toads, delved
in worm-deep dirt, your mud throne

an empire of grubs, craving crawdads,
not fame. While Beowulf boasts
his slaughter of sea serpents, your midnight trill
rattles through gutters for a mate.

Eric Fisher Stone is a poet and writing tutor from Fort Worth, Texas. He received an MFA in writing and the environment from Iowa State University. His publications include three full-length collections of poetry: The Providence of Grass, from Chatter House Press, Animal Joy, from WordTech Editions, and Bear Lexicon, from Clare Songbirds Publishing House.