Hallie Watson

 

 

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Clouds Over Pip's Pond (13.75 x 19.5

 

Pip’s Pond


    
   When Ron drops me off at the north farm, I step off the maintained gravel road onto the abandoned part of the fourth line and things begin to fall away. The car gets tiny and disappears.
    
   I can see where the road used to be, the sides cut into the hill in places. There is a track there now, with an apple tree bravely producing tiny apples to the side and there is coyote scat right in the middle of the path. Bees buzz and there is a settling in me as I readjust to being on my own.
    
   I am walking down to Pip’s pond. The road goes through pine forest, softly needled, and then into open grass. Big hills rise up on both sides and there is just me and the place together. As I walk around a curve I see big, moving, dark shapes up on the road ahead. What are they? I am  uneasy then realize that they are wild turkeys, their big bodies on the road in front of me even though they know I am coming. They look at me for a long time and get bigger as I advance. They should be frightened of me but there is safety in numbers and there are at least three of them. At the last minute they get off the grassy road and linger down the embankment before disappearing.
    
   Now I see Pip’s pond, the ripples of the surface coming and going, the clouds reflecting on the surface. I lay a groundsheet on the horse-taily damp ground and draw. There is an exchange between me and the place I am in and the air is filled with pre-historic dragon flies, their dry wings making an astonishing racket in the sunshine. A chickadee is in a bush over my head, anxiously talking on and on. I draw the hypnotic, moving pattern on the surface of the water and I smell the sun on the mud and green plants at the water’s edge.
    
   Suddenly I hear a crashing in the trees not far to my left, something is there and it’s something big, breaking big branches. My brain goes into pre-historic fear. I don’t wonder if it’s a deer, I think of something big, powerful and unafraid. The wild repossession of the countryside has flipped a primordial switch and there is a back bend in my imagination. Instead of a flock of wild turkeys, heavy in the branches, there is something huge, and menacing, a dark shape lurking, a bear, a monster. I am a puny figure in the wilderness, the balance of modern reason is tipped backwards in time to illogical fear. I am the first settlers wondering what might be hiding in the dark forest. There is only me in my sock feet sitting on the ground in the sunshine by the lapping water.
    
   I pull myself back. I stand up and yell to tell whatever it is that I am there, and the crashing stops. Maybe whatever it is is still there but it makes no sound now. It lies down and pulls the leaves over its dark body.
    
   I go back to my drawing. The dragonflies resume. They light on my drawing board, shimmering with blue wings.