sentient, passing from
spawn to tadpole to
thing with legs that
can step out onto the waterside.
This thing I made has grown
lungs and chords in its throat
and so I am starting to think
it may even sing.
This thing I made is
wanting free now, banging
and rustling at the walls of
the nest, sending scraps
of loose twig and grass tumbling.
This thing I made will be
let out soon, and I'll be
proud that it's made it so
far
no matter what
those it meets may think.
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