Still Waters
an excerpt

1.

Morning fog rises lazily above the still waters of Brickmann's Pond and slowly drifts into the dense woods lining its banks. Beyond the water's edge, the grey band of moist air obscures the tree bottoms as though a landscape painter, dissatisfied with the rendered scene, had brushed a colorless swath across his canvas to erase the previous work and start anew. With their trunks disappearing into the narrow strip of fog, the forest growth appears to be suspended in an opaque, grey solution, a wilderness of ghost trees floating above the pond side.
Dawn has arrived though night still lingers above the wetland clearing, resisting the thin shafts of early light beginning to pierce the foliage; yet most of its vestments have parted: the cicadas have ended their monotonous chorus, the predators who travel under darkness, coyote and bobcat, have retuned to their lairs, and hints of emerging sunlight are casting glittering patches upon the softly rippling surface, nudged awake by a gentle northern breeze.
A few visitors, the first of the day, have arrived on the far bank: a half dozen white-tailed deer, two does leading three fawns in a quiet procession, followed at the rear by a young buck, antlers still calcifying beneath their velvet sheaves. Dipping their necks toward the still water, they pause, staring in one direction, then another, weighing the potential danger of odors and sounds too slight for human detection. They drink leisurely, seemingly unconcerned, for they are accomplished pretenders, and the caution they conceal is never truly relinquished. Abruptly, one doe raises her head and looks about, smoothly swiveling her face from one side to the next, each movement deliberate and graceful. With her thirst sated and a decision apparently reached, she turns and lopes away, using that distinctive piston-like motion, down the trail, reversing the direction from which she entered the clearing. The others quickly follow, moving in that same determined gait, their matriarch's departure a silent commandment that must be obeyed. Last to leave is the buck, a little arrogantly, refusing to show haste, exalting in his self-appointed role as protector of doe and fawn as he passes from adolescence to full maturity. Undoubtedly the deer are leaving to breakfast elsewhere. The riparian forest offers a wealth of foliage and fruit, more than enough to satisfy their needs, but the damp growth is not the herd's first choice. They prefer the drier grazing available on the open meadows to the northwest, just past the fire road, two miles distant. Few animals linger very long on the pond's edge, for soon others will arrive and may contest the limited space; in dense woodland, clear ground and fresh water is coveted for nourishment and thirst; but not all will come to drink and forage; a few will come to hunt.
In their wake, a swarm of dragonflies skim across the surface, hovering over the yellow water lilies and pond weed in their hunt for any insects that survived the nightly feeding of a colony of big brown bats now resting in the hollows of rotting oaks. Other wildlife are awakening. A great blue heron swoops over the tree tops while a flotilla of American black ducks, a mother followed by a chain of her ducklings, swims languidly by, just skirting the bush entangled banks.
Yet to make an appearance are the proprietors of Brickmann's Pond, the four beaver families resident whose engineering skills maintain the wetland's integrity. Perhaps they have decided to prolong their slumber, for a busy day with much important work has arrived. During the night, an early spring storm front in Canada moved ominous dark clouds laden with moisture south and inundated the Great North Woods under three inches of steady rain. It left a soggy cloak, the residue of its passage, draping over the forest canopy; leaves and bark will dry quickly enough once the sun reaches its apogee, but the rivers and streams are swelling with unexpected volume. For weeks, the melting snow cover on high ground has been releasing gushing channels of water down mountain slope and hillside, feeding the rising rivers and streams that cross the wooded hollows. Now, suddenly, the rate of increasing water level has accelerated, augmented by the unexpected rainfall; deeper, more turbulent current than usual will test the strength of the beaver dams. Spillage, the higher water flowing over the top of the dams, will pass without damage, but the stronger current hidden below the surface will exert enormous pressure against the weakest part of the structure. A dam's foundation consists of stones and heavy, water-logged timber; in contrast, the central retaining walls, a mixture of lighter wood and mud, are its most vulnerable points. And if the dams break, the pond will be lost, and all the rich growth and diverse wildlife dependent on its vitality will be threatened.
And still they have not appeared! The sun will presently clear the tree tops, and the beavers, lords of this watery domain, remain in their lodges. What can they be thinking?