Pond Time

I sat down in the warm sun by Billy Creek. That’s Billy “Crick” for me and some of the others around these parts. Not much of a crick at all and probably not on a map.

Nonetheless, just as important as some of those bigger ones that might make it on local fishing maps. At least, to me.

The creek was manmade. An actual port of entry for the water-flow into the community pond. Water pushes itself through a line drilled in the cube’ish shaped rock. It’s taller than a bale of hay, but not as long. And maybe a little more octagonally. You get it.

Water pulses out of the small boulder enough to create a 6″ x 6″ resemblance to old faithful. The water clothes itself over the rock and drapes around it like a perfectly fit table cloth. The drops trickle to the ground in little, rhythmic thumps, big and small.

From there, carefully placed river rock line a curvy creek that slowly flow down a delicate straight slope, just about 40 yards, below a a small walking bridge, and into the Weiser Community Pond.

The pond is wonky shaped, and thoughtfully manicured in natural attire. Dark green shiny benches and practical charred barbecues are placed throughout the reeds of cattails and dried grasses.

There are several little pieces of this pond that I love, most wrapped up in memories of fishing or exploring with family. But, today I just want to sit by Billy Creek.

The sun shines hot on my red hoodie. To say it’s too hot, for me, is extraordinary. I run relatively cold. Something about turning 40, changes the temperature of your body. Right? Surely that’s it. Am I in menopause? This can’t be menopause.

The hoodie comes off.

As I stand I notice the squatting pine tree on the other side of the creek. It’s less than twenty feet away, but I look at it brand new. Long fingerlike branches with forest green needles about the length of my own fingers. Branches curving upward, almost in a dramatic pose of worship. Sunlight glistening. Miniature Old Faithful flowing behind me.

I remember I have to go back to work and collect my stuff.

The foam handled cane does not help de-emphasize the aging process I have noticed. Things are definitely slowing down and there is that sense of “What is my life legacy and what do I want to do?”, as I realize the clock has ticked away a good portion of my timeline and my health has been discouraging.

I pause once more at the rustic Billy Creek sign and reluctantly strap my purse over my shoulder. I breathe. Take the next step. And keep going.

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