The Pond

There is a pond in my backyard.

But its waters have no sparkle,

or Koi, and I fret over its mucky

bottom as its burps up fleets of

late summer algae blooms

that cling to its edges.

 

The creatures there would gladly

seize me; were I to misstep and

skid on elbows into its murk

where snapping turtles are large,

and languid and hell-bent on

destroying me.

 

But how was I to know? I’d crushed

their old comrade while driving that

blasted truck, rolling through high

grass in the surrounding fields. But the

snappers hate me no less for my admission

of guilt.

 

Meanwhile, the cattails sway in the breeze,

While the heron steps in the shallows

and the blackbirds weave their nests.

A muskrat lingers in a hole in the bank,

and a rabbit is crouched and shivering,

while a weasel waits for its chance.

 

And it was six months later; I discovered

the old soldier lying pressed to the ground.

I thought it strange before realizing it was

I who’d stolen his days in the sun. I’d see

him no more on his sunning stones, but how

was I to know?