Brother Son, Sister Moon

Grampa

The old man must have stopped our car two dozen times to climb out and gather into his hands the small toads blinded by our lights and leaping, live drops of rain.
The rain was falling, a mist about his white hair and I kept saying you can't save them all, accept it, get back in we've got places to go.
But leathery hands full of wet brown life, knee deep in the summer roadside grass, he just smiled and said they have places to go to too.
-Joseph Bruchac