Dave Bonta watches wood frogs gathering in the temporary ponds that form along a ridge each spring. The scene is small and specific: dozens of frogs drifting across water that mirrors the treetops, each one calling loudly. The word "lust" is blunt, and "blatting" and "fat throat" make the mating season sound noisy, greedy, and a little comic rather than delicate.
The last stanza shifts from the frogs to the observer. A step closer and the chorus stops. Another step and the frogs are gone, leaving only strings of bubbles. The speaker doesn't say how he feels, but the poem suggests quiet amusement and a kind of respect. He is an outsider at a private, raucous event, and the frogs end it the moment he intrudes. The mood is earthy and lively, with a hint of humility: the natural world carries on fully only when we keep our distance.