By Aaron Suranofsky
How still the pond lies, a mirror reflecting the plain white sky, soaking up the loneliness, the frog thinks, thinks about the water strider still on the surface, planted like a knotted grass fortress, legs as sensitive as catfish whiskers. Thinks all about the dragonfly sprouting from the stone, as stiff and lifeless as a dried up bone, wings weaving forth like a petrified web. Thinks endlessly about the owl hanging so high, airy feathers as still as the stagnant sky, beak piercing the clouds like a cool blue bolt. Can't stop thinking about the duck cradled by water, floating like a hunk of fallen oak, throat clean and anxious like a polished gun. But the frog does not think, when his throat bulges, beating the rumbling bog, flipping and popping the sky’s visage. Rattled and roused, the water strider moves, dancing in step with the undulating surface, her hair-thin legs flowing, fluid with grace. Wings vexed by dastardly vibrations, the firefly flicks from his rock, body sailing with the breeze, wings whip like invisible sticks smacking invisible drums. Ears ripped from their search for mice, the owl hollers its holy hoo, the air trembling with a gentle boom. Dragged from his noon nap, the duck quacks and flaps, spraying drops like shotgun pellets, plopping and dropping, a piano cascading its piece. Roar and rage does this rollicking song, as the sun sails from one horizon to the other, until the pond gets tired, and settles once more.