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All Is Well At the Pond

Twilight, the frolicking hour of the nocturnal animals.
A curtain of gray melancholy slowly shuts out the sun.
There are two gentle remembering streaks across the sky,
Then all is dark.  The master artist knew what He was
Doing when he painted today’s sky. The streaks are golden.

The nocturnal animals are slowly waking up from their 
Daytime slumber.  They are wise enough to move slowly,
Not making any extra movements, as to not be misconstrued.
The opossum is the first one to move her young out of the
Burrow. They hang on tightly, knowing to let go might mean
Death.

The raccoons are the second to arrive at the pond.
Their hands are nimble, busy, they conceal the goodies they hold.
One walks up and smacks another across the face and takes the
Spoils of war from his hand.  They shriek at each other, vagabond
Play. Their cacophony of shrieks harsh up the stillness of the night.

The dead raccoon, long forgotten, lies at the bottom of the pond.
The cadaverous mess is beginning to be less meat, and more bone,
Which means the pond water tastes less like itself to the animals.
Still, they drink, replenished, and refreshed.  The fox comes past,
And all other animals shrink back, their inner peace violated.
The fox does not play.

The fox languishes in her knowing that the other animals have
Withdrawn with fearfulness and dread.  Her power thrives when
She is deferred to in this manner and it pleases her. Her native
American spirit woman whispers, “a quick drink,”
But fox thinks otherwise.  She likes the power she
Commands.  There are droplets of dew on the cattail
Leaves, so she makes a show of licking them up too.

The water is soulless tonight, cold, not in the least
Bit tasty.  Fox wonders why, but her spirit woman does
Not issue a hint. It’s not that she’s not enlightened, it’s because
Fox needs to start listening to her, and pondering her choices
Before she leaps. Spirit woman gives her a little crease in
Her paw and fox whimpers.  

Wind begins a mellifluous melody that whistles through the
Birch trees. The meadow is dark now, with sprinkles of fireflies
And light green moths that shine up the pond.  Fox whips her
Tail around and slinks toward her favorite rock on the hill,
Where she can survey her subjects.

“They are not your subjects,” Spirit woman admonishes fox.
Fox does not care. That’s where she will repose, and take her nap.
A mystical wisp of a faerie appears where fox had stood, next
To the cattails. The faerie materializes, and begins preparing the
Cattails by way of sashaying through them rapidly.  The animals
Watch in fascination, as faerie does what faeries do.

She is no ordinary faerie, rather a member of the faerie council,
And the cattails instinctively understand and know she is in charge.
There will be no melancholy tonight.  The animals begin to murmur,
Conveying uplifting messages to each other by way of instinct and inner voices.

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