I sat on a bench by Stricker’s Pond early this morning. The red and orange light of dawn illuminated the sky to my right, while darkness still prevailed to my left. I watched a crane fly inches above the water as I listened to the birds gleefully singing in the woods. An insect fluttered aimlessly past my shoulder, appearing to have no destination in mind. I noticed the silhouette of a duck at the far edge of the pond, its movement creating a tiny ripple of water that disappeared as quickly as it arrived. Flashes of lightning from the last of the overnight storms that had just blown through appeared in the distance. I strained to catch the accompanying thunder, but heard rushing water from a nearby pipe entering the pond instead. I noticed droplets dangling from the edge of a branch. Every thirty seconds or so one would fall harmlessly, its descent culminating with a barely audible plop into the puddle below.
The horizon’s prevailing color transitioned to yellow as the sun continued to add light to the sky. I noticed a man riding a bicycle down the side street on the opposite side of the pond. He was crouched in a low stance, his legs churning as if he was being chased by something scary. He looked so focused on speed that I wondered if he had any inkling of the magnificent scenery that surrounded him. Then I decided that didn’t matter, as the amount of appreciation I had for all the stunning beauty in and around the pond covered us both.
