The pond that was not a pond had a glassy surface on which many swans and ducks and other water-inclined avians practiced their paddle kicks, their flaps, their winged lifts into the still-crisp air of late morning. It was a good pond for such activities as it was not frequented by people who may stand and gawk at a misplaced ulna. But sadly it was not a good pond for living as the pond that was not a pond was inhospitable to fish as it was also inhospitable to plants and also to algae and to the many other microscopic organisms of which humans and ducks and other water-inclined avians know little despite the profound effect it may have on day to day life.
It was not long before the pond that was not a pond became known as the duck pond, or the swan pond, or the heron pond depending on which bird was in season and bustled about the edges of the lawn sending threatening squawks and chirps to the other birds who may stake a claim.
The herons were the pond’s least favorite residents as herons are exceedingly full of themselves, begging others to provide the narration as the great white heron, no the great blue, not the finely tufted rises out of the marsh grass against the rosy fingered dawn–
While on the subject of its dislikes, the pond is not overly fond of Fitzgerald.
The pond that is not really a pond despite its many appellations to the contrary desires overmuch to be a pond, a true pond, an inter coastal waterway or tributary, or a body of water falling under the regulations of government agencies. It wishes it were man-made or natural, or other wise easy to define.
It wishes the gazebo that is not a gazebo and an estate that is not an estate would join it in its protestations to the board of judiciaries, to sign its petitions for reconsideration, to study the rules of civil procedure for whichever federal system has jurisdiction.
The pond that is not a pond knows not why it is not a pond, only that no glacier sloughed its waters, no trench widened and widened, no engineer excavated at perfect obtuse angles to form its shores. One day the pond that was not a pond was a drop of water. The gazebo a white stick, the estate–well, the estate admits that it was always an estate and merely went along with the rest for symmetry.
The herons believe they are to be credited for this incredible jump in size and grandeur. Surely the heavens declared that such stately birds deserved stately surroundings, and set in motion the gathering of mass, the metastisization of liquid.
But herons will believe anything.