There is the 160, and to the
northwest corner in a sheltered area
lies a small
pond, primarily north and southern laid,
curving,
a drainage area succumbing at
the northern end from too much rain,
the furthermost corner of the
dammed area eroding away.
To reach the pond you must go over two
swells of elevated native country,
not hills, just swells,
enough to lift you high at the top to see
360 degrees,
and view the Smoky Hills.
Indian country. Virgin land.
Just you and me.
Once at the pond, we can slide rocks over the
frozen waters, and test the ice with our boots,
give it more weight,
hear a cracking and step back.
Not cold enough to slide across
fear holds us back, we've
never known how really deep the pond
and don't want to find out now.
Wait a moment.
Spring's rains dissolve the iciness of winter
and warmer weather starts the pond to
brewing scum
green, bubbling, warm sun growing
algae, with bobbing eyes of half-morphed
tadpoles blinking, sinking, popping up over
there,
see? Step into the worn ruts
left from last summer's cow's tracings
to the edge of the pond,
kick the sand a
bit with your booted toe, and watch the
red ants swarm. Cattails are beginning,
reeds only.
Wait a moment.
Summer erupts the pond into cattails brown tops
and frogs
and squirrels chittering along the bank,
and turtles
and bugs, water bugs dancing,
skimming the pond's surface
and down the frog's throat.
Now skim small rocks, flat rocks,
make them dance
and plop. Plop. Plop.
A bit of moss clings to the edge of the water
and you walk softly there, to not scare
....croack.... splash, splish, frogs
hear you anyway, and dive, dive safely.
The weeping willow lends a long trunk outward
over the pond, enough to sit on and gaze out
on the shimmering pond's
surface, discerning
eyes of toads, frogs and perhaps a turtle
floating in the middle.
Wishing for a small boat.
Just for the heck of it. Heads disappear. Pop
back up. Croaking.
Chirping. Buzzing.
Look toward the pond's south end,
a blue heron standing.
Still. Silent. Solitary.
Ducks overhead, waiting for us to
leave.
Wait a moment.
Rest begins. Water lower, scum gone,
cooler mornings, lazy afternoons of fall
begun.
Cattails effervesced into
fuzzy white puffs of seed
waiting for scattering winds.
Shining gold/yellow/red/orange
reflections on blue water
from the cottonwoods, elms,
birch, and hedgetrees. Quiet. A frog, huge now,
croaking deeper, lonely, only the one? No answer.
Splush.
Cows on the rise,
watching you, waiting for you to leave.
Come with me. You've seen the seasons of the pond.
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