Dead Pond

I’ve come to think of the pond as Dead Pond.  I’ve been avoiding it.  Each time I visit it, I hope that the the pale white bodies of the frogs and salamander will be gone.  I imagine a heron plucking them out of the water, an easy meal.

But the herons are gone for the winter and they’ve probably been dead too long for anyone other animals to fish them out.

I don’t want to think of the pond this way, but the words pop into my head.  This morning the barn was clean from when I mucked it out yesterday afternoon when we got home from our trip.

I was warm out, the snow and ice melting and I wasn’t ready to go back inside. So I took a walk down to the pond.

I told Zinnia “no swimming” and she listened.  There were the frogs and salamanders belly up under the crisp clear water.

But then, I both heard and felt the thrumming of wings and lift of water.

From behind the bushy pussy willows six mallards rose into the sky, bodies straight up and down, beaks reaching towards their destination.

The rush of wings was softened by the moist air and when they were out of sight another three mallards rose up from the pond,  then five more after them.

Not dead at all, I thought as I watched the ducks fly over my head only to settle further south in the marsh.

We’d frightened them away, but I knew they’d be back after we were gone.  They always come back.