Pond With Noise, Pond Without

Today, the mother and at least nine ducks are sleeping in the shade of a rock
not ten feet away and a squirrel on its stomach outstretches its legs and lays flat. It rests
its chin on its forearms. He's never seen this before.
Sitting, supposedly, in thoughtless meditation, he thinks of a therapist keeping office hours
and holding a space for a client who doesn't show by showing anyway
to sit there in her chair. He imagines fifty minutes spent considering the impact
of another's absence on one present person and gasps. All at once,
the ducklings begin preening their nine selves and the squirrel stands up and starts to scratch.
A bug begins to climb his stomach, his shirt, and one duck dips
for a swim. It's a quiet day, hotter than most, but his mind
doesn't ask why. One after the other, the remaining waddlers follow. In the distance,
in unison, children with towels march toward a pool and shout "silence" over and over and,
over them all, another one shouts "these songs are hurting my ears".