Animal Stories From The Pond

A red dragonfly, a yellow butterfly.  It’s warm again and the insects are out.

But I didn’t expect the heron.  Even though it rained last night, the pond is still low.  So low I wonder where all the animals who live in it have gone.

It seems some are still there, enough for the heron to stay awhile.

I opened the gate to the back pasture and she flew, first low to the ground.  Then she made a sharp turn and disappeared behind the pussy willows and alders.  A moment later her shadow was on the ground in front of me and when I looked up I saw her giant wings, a dark “v” against the cloud streaked sky.

With the pond only a puddle, I was able to see those things that are usually under water.  I stepped onto the straw yellow grasses laid down and drying.  They held me up along the edge but as I got closer to the middle of the pond, my boots started to sink.

That’s when I saw the heron’s footprints coming from the marsh into the pond.  I stepped into the thick black mud to get a closer look and my foot sank so deep the mud started to pour over the top of my boot.

I eased my boot out, and back on the grass I saw the remains of a crayfish.  I imaged all the crayfish who live in the pond huddled in the shallow water.  Or maybe like frogs, they bury themselves in the mud.

Seeing the story of life and death so close to home, made me forget the things that troubled me for a while.  My struggles and joys have no meaning in the life of the heron or crayfish.  For the heron I am someone to avoid, someone who interrupts lunch.

And maybe for the crayfish, I am another chance.

On the other side of the gate, where I left Zinnia so she wouldn’t follow me into the mud, I found her sniffing scat.    Some was white, fur with small bones, but most of it was dark, with slivers of undigested apple skin and seeds.

It looked too small for a coyote.  I suppose it could have been a fox marking it’s territory.  I can image it  running along the fence line then disappearing into the marsh.