I've told you many stories of the pond that lives down the road from my house. But first let me tell you more of my home. I live in a typical suburban neighborhood in a city, in a ranch home in a cul-de-sac that was built in the early 80s. We have a small back yard filled with garden beds, birds feasting on our sunflowers, and long dead pets. Nature can feel scarce with so much pavement and highway roads.
But nearby lies 52 acres, a private high school campus that feels like a secret, private park. And in that park lives a pond where geese swim in a small pack, where children play on her sandy shores, and where you can spot dozens of turtles, bathing in her waters.
I visit that pond most days, usually with a dog or two, throwing sticks into her belly of water. I often take off my shoes and sink my toes into the wet sand. I love to watch the geese, the turtles, and the pair of blue herons who take off, mid flight, filling my heart with awe.
The turtles rest on large branches hanging over the water, in a turtle congo line that makes me smile. When my dog thumps across the grass, announcing her arrival, they plop into the safety of the water, one by one. This poem came one day from watching the turtles.
Yesterday I went to the pond, hoping to take a photo of the turtles to share with you. One came right up to shore, as if she knew I was waiting for her. She swam to me, ducked into the water, and played near the shore, inviting me to share her with you. And so I have.
Meeting an old friend
A turtle is supposedly plodding and slow.
But when I watch the turtle at the pond
her small head pokes above the water's rim.
And as she bobs down into green water
I see her swimming, a selkie under mossy skin.
She dives with graceful ease. I watch
and discover her hard shell, anew.
Perhaps we, too, are different creatures
then what others have assumed.
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