The pond’s edge is glassy, the middle wind-rippled. From the birch tree I peer into the water. Pondweeds corkscrew up to the surface, blooming tiny flowers. Lily pads open themselves to the sky. I wait.
On the far shore a beaver slaps her tail. The woods creatures pause and look, then return to foraging. I wait.
Sun and shadow move across the far hill and meadow grasses sway. High summer has passed and the earth exhales toward autumn. I wait.
As the sun sinks toward the horizon, ephemeral insects dip and dance above the water. A flicker of silver rises toward the pond’s surface. I lean into the wind and dive. As the fish spirals out of the water, shedding sun-glinting droplets, I intercept it. Then I spread my wings and fly, hearing the whoosh, whoosh of my wings in the wind.
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