Like the sound of an approaching train,

first distant, then gathering in force,

the breeze travels from Whiteface Mountain

through the narrowing gap

that is Osgood Pond,

passes through, then total silence, complete silence

before it begins again.

 

At night there is the haunting cry of loons

and the dark, silent white pine sentinels

that line the shore as young pines

snuggle up to those who have

withstood the ravages of time.

Sun drops behind the trees and

its reflection disappears from pond’s surface.

And then darkness only experienced far away from city lights.

 

On an afternoon walk, we see fresh-faced students

from a nearby college, armed with pad and pencil

to record what they know and do not know.

A wrong turn grows an hour to two

but adds a bridge across a bog

and the wonder of running ground-pine

pushing its shoots through fecund earth.

 

Moss-covered paths and the pond itself invite us to explore

secluded spots to read, to float, or just be.

A rustic tea house accessed by an arched wooden bridge,

a boathouse with kayaks, a rowboat, and canoes,

a ping pong table and ancient bowling alley,

and living treasures — lady hat pins, water lily blooms,

spotted frogs, hidden creeks, celery grass,

and a chance meeting with a woman

dwelling on an island in the middle of the pond.

 

For a time worries recede and I am at peace,

grateful for these moments

when Mother Earth embraces me

and rocks me in her

sights, her scents, her sounds.