Chatham Pond

Today I laid on the hill behind the pond on Chatham's campus. This is the place I will make a weekly visit to and write about. The following are my thoughts from earlier: Grass as long as my fingers. A tree that looks as though it's been skinned to the smooth grey underneath. There are white circular flowers that remind me of a woman's sheer blouse. On this shaded hillside, trees and bushes only let a small amount of light shine through, but no spec of this area is left untouched; it is evenly greened. I search the grass for a four leaf clover, but no luck today. There is a duck by th epond, the kind my father collected in figurines and paintings, the kind with a patch of dark green and antique brown feathers. The pond water is cloudy, muddy, as dark as fear. Yet, bright orange fish swim around in lines and cirlces. The duck is just sitting there on the edge waiting. For what? I wonder. For solitude. For a companion. For a piece of bread like amusement park ducks. Tree branches hang over the water as if the old tree no longer wants the weight on its bark, or as if they were just that thirsty waiting for the rain. The fountain spurts out water which is the only sound, aside from the chirping birds. It creates a movement that groups stray leaves together. Blocking some of my view is a bush that seems like it might be dying, brown bleeding on the tips. Its appendages stick out in all different directions like a boy's hair in the morning. I'm not sure why, but there are large grey stones placed around the pond in a section of mulch. I suppose this is mere decoration, but who needs that? Now that the black squirell is gone, several birds land on the ground moving their necks like the arrow of a clock. Tic-toc. A lone red-bellied bird hops too and fro, looking...for food? The duck is still sitting there. I wonder if I'll see him next time, or if he will have taken the plunge into the murky water.