Probably

An old tree branch, broken and dry

years ago by wind and storm

finally broke from its living mother

and fell into the air, bounced off of mother's arms

and down onto a rock, over a cliff

and into the roiling foam of a rushing,

tumbling waterfall of a lonely brook,

and then into a long calm current

in the sun, then in the shade,

then the sun again, and under dancing clouds,

and then over the rapids of water-cushioned

stones.

Twirling at times, then straight as an arrow,

onward, forward, like time that can never

go back, watched by fish, watched by birds,

seen at times, at times not seen,

nor heard, nor touched.

Then it settles across a sandy plain,

an insignificant shore that becomes

a single grassy flooded meadow, then a

tree-shaded pool of abundant weeds and flowers,

and knocks a frog in the head.

But that is okay,

because the eggs have already been

expelled from the traumatized frog

and they will become tadpoles and then

nymphs with vestigial tails and little

hoppy legs, and they will slowly

climb their way to heaven.

On the way, they will remember their

brave mother, wounded, uncertain

but ever hopeful, frightened,

sad, but still happy that her

children are on their way and yet

both she and all of her children will

possess a kind of memory of the old

broken tree branch that knocked her

in the head when all she was trying to

do was rest a bit after a long, hard day.

The old branch is gone now, invisible

lost as the soil of the forest floor,

walked on by birds and a fox and a rabbit,

browsed by worms, explored by fungus,

and serenated by the peepers on their way to heaven

who think they already are in heaven.

And it is noted by the creatures of the forest

that life appears to be a plan that looks like an accident

or maybe it is an accident that looks like a plan.

"But you don't know" a confident peeper says,

although you try to explain everything.

Why don't you just shut up and do your job,

just peep.