The Pond

I talk to the pond,
to its black metallic surface,
and it talks back.
Not the frogs and dragonflies
but the pond itself
talks in a low hum
like an airplane taking off
in the next county,
or a book hitting the floor
dropped from the hand of a sleeper
in a house two miles away.
The pond says nothing
terrible is about to happen.
The plane will land safely
at its destination and the book
will be retrieved from the floor
by the sleeper as he prepares
for bed. Nothing bad
is hidden in the depths
of the water: a bicycle, the remains
of an ancient civilization
reproduced in popsicle sticks
and playdough. The abandoned,
forgotten before they even broke
the surface of the dark
mirror they inhabit.