A Saturday up at the Pond

It’s a kind of community,
All the smallish, people groupings,
The modular packets of friends
And families who play a bit

Along the shoreline, chattering,
Some of them wading halfway in,
Some of them trying to skip stones.
Then off they go, time to go home.

Groups hardly ever interact.
Old couples may greet each other,
Let their leashed dogs sniff each other,
Discuss each other’s license plates.

Children, if allowed by parents,
Will sometimes make friends with children.
Mostly each pod sticks to itself.
But it’s kind of community—

The common appeal of the pond,
Common understanding the point
Of being here is to relax
And recreate. Laugh, kayak, fish.

It has a rotational feel,
Like the constellations, like clouds.
Everyone’s sort of their own deal,
And part of the same kind of crowd.