The Pond Before a Storm

The surface is receding.
It leaves behind new surface
Of dirt instead of water,

Wavering in a slower way
Unless that gets dry enough
To lift off as waves of dust.

Celebrate your arrival
At your clock of survival,
Surface that gets happier

Almost with every visit,
Whether freshet-fed in spring
And advancing up the slope

Or receding in late fall,
The purest hope of the pond,
A harsh winter deep in snow.