Up early, I headed
for a handful of hidden ponds,
hoping for wood frogs.
Like the monochrome of a pencil sketch,
or the patina of ancient pewter,
grey clouds and tree trunks,
bare branches, rocks and dried leaves,
stretched in all directions.
The ponds were quiet
with no wood frogs clacking,
no frenzied mating energy
expended. But,
upon closer inspection,
there were eggs, thousands of them,
or maybe millions,
laid on submerged twigs and leaves
in the nights before.
Captivated, I turned my attention
to what was there...
leaves visible on the pond bottom,
tall trees reflected in still water,
a teasing bubble as something
swam to the surface...
something long and sleek,
something black with yellow spots,
something gracefully twisting and turning
as it descended, head down,
back into the depths.
Through binoculars and taking a closer look
beneath the water,
what had looked like nothing much
became alive with the slow-motion movement of
spotted salamanders,
creeping, gliding, crawling
over and under decaying debris,
going about their mating-season,
daytime rest.
Grateful wonder.
Enfolding stillness.
Unfolding contentment,
Contemplation of what is
rather than disappointment with what isn't.
Truly, is this not what I had really
come seeking?
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