Days Without Rain

In the days without rain  
the pond is down.  
The few trees that grow in it  
bear witness to what the waterline  
used to be.  
Dragonflies while the day away  
pretending to be acrobats  
performing aerial feats for each other.  
An occasional breeze sways the small stand  
of cattails that grow near the edge.  
Their mint-green leaves, long knives,  
firm as canvas sails full of wind  
on yacht race day.  
A young frog sits in the shallows,  
three-quarters submerged,  
a meniscus outlines his exposed body.  
He is still as stone, rarely even blinking,  
patiently waiting for a meal.  
Bluegill sunfish suspended  
in knee-deep water hoping  
the minnows stop paying attention.  
Summer sun casting tree-shaped  
shadows on the surface of the pond,  
a meager fleet of the first-fallen  
sweetgum leaves set sail,  
showing their new-found colors  
like the painter's pallet;  
cadmium yellow mixing  
with brown umber,  
ruby red bleeding to sunset orange,  
and ochre fading to burnt sienna.  
By ten o'clock the sun  
is showing its strength.  
The dragonflies  
are not discomforted  
and continue in superfluity  
of flight undaunted.  
Though, most other creatures  
move toward the coolness  
of shade to rest and drift in thought,  
to dream of long spring showers,  
of gentle thunder and heat-lightning  
confined to the clouds,  
and the way one season  
slowly turns into another.