And so we came to the
pond at an hour so
early daylight seemed
a miracle there was no
counting on. Pastels? No,
strictly charcoals this year.
The darkness is a soft smudge,
black and white, stark, as
if night had bled all color
from the day. The hills
beyond lie xeroxed on the
pond. You can't look away,
for it will run toward
dawn like a naughty child,
defiant, going it's own
way. There's no stopping
it: the light will come. Smoke
rises, scrubbing the pond
clean, and small waves lap
the shore in the rhythm of
great oceans. Then the bird:
"Clunk. Clunk." And the
answer: "Clink!" The day
unlocks before us.

Walden Pond
5:30 a.m.
September 26, 2001

All written material © Bill Schechter, 2016
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