Following the flight of the blue heron

I can’t get to the pond soon enough

find it flooded by weeks of pounding rain

and filled with nature’s business—

wood peckers rat-a-tat-tat and turtles

plop off fallen trees as a blue bird cher-wee

cher-wees on his way to sit in the balcony

of wind-blown leaf instruments.

Canada geese announce my entry into this

verdant theatre as they honk, back-peddle

on the pond, fly up, circle then slide back

onto this glass stage to deter me from spotting

females hiding goslings in tufts of grass.

At the end of the path, I turn back, crawl out

on an old tree that has fallen over the water

its thick branches stuck in the muck holding it up.

Two young deer feed on the far side of the pond

ears erect. They live in a skin of fear.

Below, a two-foot long carp vacuums up

food, his long blue body moves snake-like

his puppy head swings side to side, his gills

rhythm   in out in out. It’s just us in these

few moments of grace — nothing   else   matters.

Returning to where the turtles

plop into the water for the second time

tiny heads reappear, they scratch back

up the branches, settle on the tree

heads extended, sundial noses

aimed at the noon day sun.

The blue heron watches from the wings.

During intermission, I sit on a mossy hill

as a Canada goose who, tamed by a

neighbor, waddles up the aisle. He quietly

hisses   hisses again. I make the noise I use

to call my cats  kiss   kiss. The goose barks

squats down near me. Calm as a mill pond

we wait for the second half of the show.

                                   —Bonnie Thompson Enes