Rick Alley
Upon further inspection, the pond was not odd. Rusty crabs with large claws moved away in reverse when approached. As in other ponds, bubbles ticked, hinting at life beneath.
Some believed it had always been there; it had passed unnoticed till now. Others owned more magical minds. There was no proof that ponds weren’t wounds; maybe our land was hurt.
A council member was hit by a bee; surely this was a sign. The neighborhood fool drowsed by the pond, dreaming the leaves were boats.
Whites
Ben Navaee