The sun broke through
after three days of rain,
giving us the chance
to sit in our favorite chairs
next to the cove,
as far as we could get
from the polluting jet-skis.
The heron was expected,
returning to its nest
after a long day of fishing
on our pond and the next.
The turtles also are regulars,
often just noses poking out of the water;
today two sunning on a rock.
We would have been satisfied
with those. The loon was a bonus.
Its visits are occasional–
perhaps exploratory scouting
for safe places on this small lake,
or on the prowl for tender ducklings
(which we hope she won't find).
The lack of islands on this pond
makes loons nervous,
or so we assume,
never having seen more than this one.
We welcome her in silence,
watch her dive, make guesses
as to where she will resurface.
(Scoby Pond, NH)
C. T. Holte grew up in Minnesota without color TV; played along creeks and in cornfields; went to lots of school; and has had gigs as teacher, editor, and less wordy things. He and his beautiful partner divide their time between Albuquerque and a tee-tiny New Hampshire cabin on a pretty tiny pond. His poetry has been published in Words, California Quarterly, Months to Years, Pensive, Mediterranean Poetry, and elsewhere, and has been hung from trees to celebrate the Rio Grande Bosque.
Featured image courtesy the poet.
