There is a pond I pass on mornings
when I walk. It is not mine, and yet
it is, a pond that’s peaceful
under the sycamore, disturbed
only by the trickle of a tiny waterfall.
But if I rest, quiet, beneath
the tree, another world opens
to my senses.
A deep croak drones into the morning
stillness. Goldfish undulate
beneath the lily pads. A dragonfly hovers. Splash!
The insect darts away.
Overhead, a cicada vibrates, pleading
for his mate.
The fountain grass quivers.
A rabbit hops close, nose sniffing,
mouth sampling. Startled by
something I cannot see, he disappears
into the hostas, as all grows quiet
There is a pond I pass. It is not mine,
and yet, it is.