I’m surrounded
by a dense forest
of towering hemlocks
to the west,
birch and maple
to the south and
a rotting oak
struck by lightening
stands by the pond’s edge.
When I first came here,
out of breath from NYC,
I walked through thick
underbrush to the pond,
barely visible from the hill.
I stood out there with
the Real Estate agent,
as if a dollar or a million
dollars could purchase
any of this. An abandoned
beavers’ house was by the
far shore. From the northwest
a great blue heron
slowly soared across
the cattails, effortless
landed atop
the beavers’ house
and turned to look
at me directly. Not
in an idle scan of
her surrounding, but
a look that seemed to
weigh and measure
my worth as her
neighbor on this pond.
