The aquatic scientist said come here, so we did,
following his coordinates to this pond
hidden in an odd corner of the park.

Hunting for long-toed salamanders,
I tiptoe along the soft and grassy shore,
lifting rotted wood and peering. Not one to be found,

but there are Pacific tree frogs—
one a bright giggle of lime, another dreary tan—
who leap from my soggy boots into the live murk of the pond,

and there is the clatter of dragonflies coming together to mate—
indecent, really, their racket—and here
is a glint of bright bronze on my pant leg

as a miniscule beetle stretches wide its carapace.
There are clicks and jay screech and the subliminal 
hum of living things and the creaking call

of frogs seeking one another for frog love. 
This pond, deep green, whose calm face
reflects the dark circle of evergreens surrounding it,

is verdant and alive, and I,
lifting my head from fruitless salamander searching,
face the ripple and whip of a garter snake atop a downed tree

as it snatches a rough-skinned newt from the water.
The bulging eyes and slow disappearance of the amphibian.
The snake’s gaping jaw and fixed red stare.