Summer on Scudder

Today, as I walk past the pond, bottom

mud and wasted vegetation stagnates

and farther out, a shallow pool simmers.

I imagine raccoons drinking the oily

water after dark. Or a neighborhood cat,  

perhaps mine. But what of the beavers? 

In the winter, when reeds cave beneath  

the weight of heavy snow, a view of logs 

and sticks piled high becomes visible:

the beaver den. I worried then, too. How

will the beavers surface through a glaze

of ice three inches thick? While skating

last winter,  I grew curious: could the

beavers hear my blades skimming over

the surface? But now, the pond offers only 
sticky smells and damselflies. the beavers 
have moved on. An occasional cricket 

hops off a morning glory flower, ready

to join the frog chorus when stars brighten
the night sky. Though there’s little other

wildlife this blistering day, at dusk when

I walk again, I know I’ll hear the bullfrog's 

deep jug-a-rum, and if lucky, will duck 

when feeding bats swoop the path.