Friday | 2 October 2020

Today, the pond is a mossy, muddy green, the dull surface blurred by a thousand pinging rain drops, concentric ringing, refracting, and rebounding. On the western edge, bright yellow leaves fallen from the overhanging sugar maple anchor stillness to the beating water; in a gradient to the east, the leaves turn to salmon and rust, soft, like clay and the sky at dusk. Why is the far southern edge churned, a concave line dividing smoother from rougher waters? Does the ground drop, or rise to just below the surface?

I think the turtles that live in the pond are painted turtles. They spend their days crooning on a fallen branch that juts out from the overgrown bank. Wildflowers, thick grasses, cattails and woody reeds flush together, holding back the land, holding in the water, whispering soft stories to each other in the rain.

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