Random

It used to be that the pond song would calm me. The chirring of crickets and frogs keeping a steady time to contrast with the off beat plunk of fish surfacing for dinner or turtles finally sliding off the rocks long gone cool after the day of summer sun.
Now the song fills me with dread. The orchestra no longer plays a lullabye to soothe August's humid soul, but a dirge of ever increasing quiet.
Since the blast over seas my little pond has become a barometer of death. Every day there are more beasts to fill the cloudy water, their blisters and swollen tongues a tiny reflection of what I would see were I brave enough to find a reflection in the clogged water.