Pond Dreaming
I’d heard the Roe Jan Kill
feeds the pond after passing through
Hillsdale and Copake farmland.
Slipping into its marshes I explore
each possible opening
passing cattails and yellow-flowered lily pads
into stagnant pools green-almost-black
gnat-filmed and fronds-thick.
Undergrowth—syrupy Medusa locks,
braided dreads—grabs my paddle
and as backwaters dead-end
I reverse, circle out of tight spots, maneuver
around storm-toppled trees.
A seeming dead end opens through reeds
I barely part. Then I see it—
bending, winding, shallow stream—
light-filtered.
On its banks, roots exposed,
severed, as if cut by a saw.
I sit still as light announces itself
then bows to the next frame,
and try to catch the light
until my eyes melt into the kill.
This article appears in June 2010.
