The perfect summer-swimming, lay-on-your-back-and-float, watch-the-clouds-slip-across-the-sky-overhead, watch-the-upside-down-treetops-sway, pond.
A swallow passes overhead.
To delicious food, and lazy chatter in the evening sun, and children running. At dusk the fiddles will play, and guitar, and maybe banjo. This year your daughter will play and beam when the crowd applauds.
And you will talk in the near darkness with a new acquaintance—an artist—someone who also sews and paints and strives to fill her days with creative actions and efforts. She knows of Isabelle de Borchgrave, and this and other connections lead to new connections, new ideas.
Your hair is still wet when you climb in the car, holding an empty plate that earlier held a dozen deviled eggs. The fiddle music fades into the darkness. The sky is a pale broth of blue and peach and the black mountains and trees are the bowl holding it. A last glimmer of daylight glints on the pond surface as the gravel crackles under your tires, and you turn left out of the driveway and head for home.
NOTE: this is the pond of Alisa Dworsky and Danny Sagan. I wrote about Alisa’s artistry in the winter and mentioned the pond then too.