Anna Magee-Watson
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The Pond

May 31, 2021

A balanced stone sits still amongst

A stream of animosity, arousing 

Active hostility within the water.

The fish greet it warmly, with big

Bowl-shaped lips that whisper

Rumors, unkind and scarcely told,

Of the catfish in the overgrown reeds

A surprise attack that sends wave-like

Ripples crashing through the plane,

Skimming the water’s silver skin

Subtly, perhaps even shyly, as the

Plump, flat calm shrivels away

Replaced by drumming hearts

And small shivering reflections.

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