The Pond

The Pond

There is a pond in my backyard.

It has no sparkle or Koi,

and I fret over its mucky

bottom, and the algae blooms

that cling and fume on its

treacherous banks.

The creatures there would gladly

seize me; I've only to misstep,

skid on elbows into their murk,

where the snapping turtles are giants,

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.

Still, the snappers hate me no less 

for my admission.

Meanwhile, the cattails sway in the breeze,

the heron steps in the shallows.

The blackbirds weave their nests.

A muskrat lingers in a hole in the bank

near a rabbit, crouched and shivering

while a weasel waits for its chance.

And it was six months later; I discovered

the broken shell 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 longer on his sunning stones.

But how was I to know—