I have long dreamed of a swimming hole, a pond, water on our land,
where our yellow Clipper canoe could bob and glide.
Reality puts our dreams into perspective though and we learn to shrink them,
resize them to fit our lives.
My pond dream began to take shape when mom and I found a greatly discounted
water pump at a liquidation store.
Yes, I could now have my pond!
The pump only pushed the water to a maximum of six inches.
OK, so it’s still water, it would sound like a waterfall, six inches high or not. Right.
Living in the woods on ones creativity
means one has an abundance of most everything but money,
so we scrounged the workshop and yard to find a container suitable for “The Pond.”
A discarded bait tank from one of my brothers many boats,
sunk into the grass,
an upturned clay pot, air hose pushed through the hole in the bottom
and up through a hole drilled into an old upside down blue canner lid.
Fill it up, plug it in.
Ah. Water splashing, cooling the air around it.
Marsh grass from the power line wetlands, tadpoles from the ditch,
a fern and a baby red maple planted just so.
It should look ludicrous,
my miniscule puddle of water at the centre of five acres of forest,
but it doesn’t.
You are drawn to it as are the birds, cats, dogs and grandsons.
I have my pond – well, not many would call it that,
but I do.
©Sharron R. McMillan
hernibs 