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

once more.

There is a pond I pass. It is not mine,

and yet, it is.