after “The Water Lily Pond” Claude Monet
On the bridge of my paradise,
I watch the water lilies quilt together.
The coots paddle among them,
dive for wild celery.
If I remain still, they will swim past me.
Otherwise, they will paddle to a new opening
in the lily tapestry. The purple gallinule,
with its long yellow legs and toes,
limbs that let it float
on the lily pads, joins the coots.
In the green-brown marsh grasses,
a marsh wren trills. I can only glimpse it
as it flits among the reeds,
gleaning for insects.
Sprinting among the pads,
the water bug floats on the surface,
its feet making small circles as it oars about.
The decaying log holds the red painted slider
catching the sun. At the slightest movement,
it will slip into the water. Lurking in the water,
the snapping turtle lies in wait. Dragonflies
helicopter in the air as they scout for bugs.
Evening looms, the sun purples the clouds,
the pond closes to the day. Rafts of coots float
through the night, dragonflies and wrens hitch
themselves to the reeds.
But night brings new visitors to the pond,
the bull frog awakens to call across the water
for a mate. The raccoon and her kits
search for crawdads in the shallows.
The pond settles in shades of black, grey and white.
The night cools, the pond’s guests arrive.
Zephyr Review
2022