There is a pond in my backyard.
Its waters have no sparkle,
or Koi and I fret over its mucky
bottom as it burps up fleets of
late summer algae blooms that
cling to its edges.
The creatures there would gladly
seize me; were I to misstep, skidding
on elbows into their murk, where
the snappers are large, languid,
and hell-bent on destroying me.
But how was I to know—
You see, I’d crushed their old comrade while
maneuvering that blasted truck through the
high grass in surrounding fields.
The snappers hate me no less for this admission.
Meanwhile:
The cattails sway in the breeze.
The heron steps in the shallows
The blackbirds weave their nests.
A muskrat lingers in a hole in the bank.
A rabbit crouches and shivers while
The weasel waits on its chance.
And it was six months later, I discovered
his broken shell lying pressed to the ground.
I thought it strange before realizing it was
I who’d stolen his days in the sun. I’d see
him no longer on his sunning stones.
But how was I to know—