Ferguson Brook widens and slackens
into a pond fringed with marsh grass.
We’re tentative here, the ground
uncertain, hummocks monumental.
We kneel and explore the shallows
for crayfish and minnows. Clouds
sail across the equinoctial sky
and admire their pond reflections.
We’re simpler here, discussion
muted by the lack of birdsong,
of which we’re too sadly aware.
Our philosophies fail to engage
a landscape so modest yet rich
with complex shades and shadows.
There: a lone minnow prowling.
My shadow frightens it away,
its swim skills bold and absolute.
I wish I could move like that
and part my chosen medium
as if stepping briskly onstage
to act a finely textured role.
A heron might claim that minnow
with a single expert thrust.
If I stabbed myself with a twig
I could mimic that natural process,
but surely you would spoil the effect
by bandaging me thickly enough
to conceal my childish motives.
