Kathleen Aponick Postcards from Haggett’s Pond

Postcards from Haggett’s Pond

kathleen aponick

—after a recurrence of cancer

I’m by the water on a path once a railroad bed thinking of trains whizzing by, passengers deep in thought, tense perhaps over work, family problems, the nation’s turmoil until, that is, they glance over the pond to see and hear the squawking Canada geese.

At a wetland marsh, reeds: thousands of pale stalks like a ghost army waiting for orders. Nearby, someone—or was it the wind?—tried to twist off the thin bough of a gray birch but it hangs on. I look down to its base—bright green moss, the leafy beginnings of mayflowers.

On the hillside, trail caretakers have piled up fallen boughs and small uprooted trees. Reflections of sturdy aspen ripple a shade-black pool. Was it here I heard the piercing sounds of birds high in the trees? Why were they so upset? Was I the intruder threatening their nests?

Heading back, a woman going by smiles, restrains her young dogs, eager to engage me. We exchange greetings and continue on into the years: days of clouds and snow, peace or war, sunlight falling through the trees, days of unexpected changes, without and within.