The Pond: I walk out onto the pier until it becomes a deck, and I sit. And wait, and listen. And then it begins. I scan the pond and find myself flanked on one side by a colonnade of cypress and their knee high children standing, guarding one side, while on the opposite side there is native pine, ancient and wise. All of this is held together by the levee, which is straight and strong. The sun is already bright, hot early in the morning. There is a single wasp who seems to patrol the pier as he keeps flying back and forth, sometimes coming uncomfortably close. But I hold no interest for him. I look over the side of the deck and below there is an incalculable number of tadpoles. Their little tails propelling them here, then there. Frogs will be plentiful this year. There are some insects I cant identify but dart back and forth on the water like miniature hovercraft. All of a sudden Im startled by a shadow that swoops across the deck, but it is only a lone hawk who is out hunting. The sun burns hotter by the minute and begins to lull me into a stupor so I decide to read. But what? I should have brought a Gary Snyder collection with me, but I always forget to bring something. At least I didnt forget to bring water, so I take a gulp, then a second and thats when I realize . . . Im looking at a Gary Snyder poem. A wood duck lands near her nest, uneasy with my presence. I apologize to mother nature, gather up my stuff and walk back up the hill.
Posted on: Sun, 20 Apr 2014 19:39:50 +0000
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