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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