(for Sue and James)

It doesn’t have a name other than
The Pond, its caretakers tell me.

To them, it is not big, but here,
in the great province of Ontario,
there must be thousands of small
ponds and lakes in a place where
rainfall is typically abundant.

It should be falling now,
one of the caretakers says,
adding that they’re in a moment
of drought.

But to this Californian,
coming from the land of little rain,
everything radiates a dozen shades
of green, even as fall’s yellows
and crimsons begin to creep across
the canopy, as leaves release and flutter.

Sitting atop one of the man-made dams,
listening to the stream cascade behind me,
I keep watch for beaver who have done
more than their share of beavering here,
working by night to dam up the openings
that contain the pond.

The caretakers tell me the pond
has risen 4 feet because of the beavers’ work,
and one of the caretakers regularly
has to dismantle part of the avant-garde
assemblage of downed branches that
the builders so industriously construct
so the water can flow merrily down
the stream.

The beavers’ projects are still evident—
the caretakers do not wish to destroy them—
and I imagine the sharp-toothed crew
paddling this pond and others in the dark,
looking for spaces to build because,
after all, this is their work.

Overlooking one of their innovative
sculptures, I pause, amazed, and,
my human sound rippling across the pond,
applaud these creators so committed
to their art.