There's a pond now where
there used to be a swampy
place. I often walk past
where it is but never see
who's changing it. Have
seen bulldozers idle by
the side of the road. Rich
black dirt scooped out and
pushed up all around the
sides, higher and higher
each time I wander by, and
the excavation filling grad-
ually with each heavy rain.
They haven't smoothed the
edges yet. And now those
mounds of dirt are layers thick
in fallen leaves. And when the
days are really, really cold,
all that water gets a thin, icy
layer, which is shiny in spots
where the sun pokes through
the trees.
I wonder if they'll try to skate
on their creation later on
this winter. If they'll smooth
the edges in the spring, blending
the one side on up into the slope
that holds the stand of evergreens.
I wonder too about the bullfrogs
that were there in swampy times,
croaking so loudly, and then
dropping quietly off their sunny
shelves into cool water, as
though somebody had gently
released a handful of small rocks
just above the surface.
Bob Wright
