By Cathy Hird
As the sun falls behind the hill and the clouds turn pink, a gentle mist rises from the water and slowly drifts toward shore. The pond reflects the sky and the trees and cattails that line it. Some algae and duckweed rest on the surface, while insects skim the water leaving tiny ripples. Bullfrogs and spring peepers sing. Red-winged blackbirds trill as their wings flick the grass, and they head for the shelter of the cattails.

One patch of blue flowers fills the air with sweetness. Otherwise there is no specific scent, just fresh clean air. On a patch of wet earth, I see the marks of raccoon and deer. My feet on the mown grass leave no sign I passed by.

As I come to the water's edge, the blackbirds ignore me. The males preen the red feathers at their shoulders, trill and chirp. The brown females land on the reeds making them sway. They disappear into the clumps of grass where their nests are tucked beyond my reach. They pay no attention to me knowing I cannot reach their eggs.

A bullfrog, however, complains loudly and dives into the water, too quickly for my eyes to catch sight of it. It disappears into the dark plants and mud of the pond.

A ripple spreads from a spot on the surface. I guess that a fish rose for a meal, but all I see is the spreading circle of waves. I will never know if the fish feasted or the insect escaped. One small slender fish swims slowly, just under the surface, seeking something it knows and I do not.

I have heard it was once stocked with bullhead trout, and neighbours say there are some good sized crappies and bass. For most of the day, the water is still, hiding the life beneath the surface, and I have no way of seeing what fish live here.

But this is feeding time. A small flash of green and silver leaps into the air, lands with a splash. Did it catch something or jump to test its ability? I hear another splash, see the ripples where that one landed. A line shows where a water-bug walked. Other tiny marks are made by insects landing. All across the pond are the marks made by the mouths of fish who seek a meal on the surface.

Near the shore there is a turbulent circle of waves. Some larger fish captured its dinner, but it stayed under the water's surface away from my sight.

If I took my fishing rod out, I could imitate the insects, place a fake fly on the surface, tempt the fish to take the meal I offered. Then I would see clearly the creatures that swim to the surface here. But I am curious what is in the deeper green and black of this pond. I would be tempted to use a heavier lure to tempt those who swim in the darkness beneath.

As I leave the water's edge, it occurs to me that I have not seen any turtles. Perhaps they lurked in the long grass and reeds shy of the visitor, but I have no way of knowing for sure.

The next afternoon, we are sitting on the porch of the house in Pennsylvania that my husband owns with his siblings. We wave at each car and truck that passes. We see many white pickups belonging to the company that is fracking the gas well just up the road.

One of these stops. The driver rolls down his window. "Can you put these in the pond for me?" He holds up two painted turtles.

"Of course," we say as one. When he gets out, he says he chased a large snapping turtle off the road but cared too much for his fingers to pick it up.

The heads and feet are of the turtles are pulled inside the shell as I carry them to the shore. Three deer rush for the shelter of the forest. More blackbirds ignore me, and the frogs complain. I place the turtles among the reeds, back up to give them space to figure out where they now live.
Cathy Hird is a farmer, minister, and writer living near Walters Falls.