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—