There’s a small pond nearby whose existence is a secret of mine, or so I like to think. Oh, others know of it, too, and flock to its secluded banks in summer to rest and recreate. But now that they have mostly returned to wherever it is they migrate from each year, it’s all mine again. And recently, on a glorious October afternoon, I gazed over a surface alive with sun gems as our great star cast the day’s remnants of its light across the pond’s wind-rippled water.

It was too bright to look at without sunglasses, as the glare in one particular area was as strong as if I were staring directly into the sun. But through them, the billions of pinpoints of light flashed like fireflies on a hot July night, twinkling in rapid succession with each small water star seeming to know exactly when to twinkle. What few golden leaves were left on the trees hanging over me had roles, too, and drifted down in a slow dance, some falling on water where they floated along the tiny currents and others alighting on the already carpeted ground.

Every few moments, the calmer area of the pool erupted into a series of ever-widening rings as something broke the water’s surface. A fish perhaps or a frog that hasn’t gotten the word yet that summer is long gone, and he or she had best be searching for a comfy spot deep in the murky bottom before its home becomes encased once again in ice. I didn’t look quickly enough to catch the cause of the disturbance but marveled nonetheless at how gracefully the water shimmered above whatever it was that had briefly displaced it.

Another movement caught my eye from the rushes in a small nearby inlet as a great blue heron moved cautiously toward the water. Without warning, it took flight across the pond, its great wings almost as intensely blue as the water itself. Few birds reflect the beauty of their aquatic domain as regally as does this wondrous creature.

I would venture a guess that even a sightless person would know when he or she nears any such isolated body of water. For as one gets closer to it, there is a distinct though subtle change in the air’s quality and its scent that are detectable by the other senses as well. There is the heady smell of leaf mold found along its edges where decades of autumns have resulted in a thick mat of vegetation that keeps the pond contained.

There is that softness in the air that rests gently upon the skin like a cloud, because that is what atmospheric moisture is ”“ clouds, sometimes invisible, but yet they form over every body of fresh water. There is, too, the unmistakable smell given off by the contributions made by every thing that lives in or close to the water, that use it for their sustenance and then die there, leaving olfactory traces behind. All life forms take from their surroundings what they need and give back what they don’t, a process that goes on unnoticed in ponds and lakes and that jointly produce the rich, aquatic smell that permeates such an area. Pure water has no smell at all, but water that has been home to many different forms of plant and animal life over time cannot help but also carry their essences.

The constant movement of pond water upward through evaporation washes the air, removing impurities from it, thus making it easier and much more pleasant to take in as opposed to that found in industrial areas where air quality is generally poorer. There, the exchange of water between earth and sky is more heavily affected by pollutants that mask the rich scent of the organic materials found in it near rivers and other urban bodies of water.

The heron did not return during my visit to the pond, but birds continued to flit among the higher tree branches, in search of maybe a final meal or a protected place to spend the night. The dance of the water gems ended as the sun dipped behind the now mostly bare trees, casting lingering shadows among them and across the water. What I’d hoped to see the entire time I was there finally happened as a fish broke the surface briefly then disappeared back into the depths, leaving its circular rippling wake behind. I stayed until the last one disappeared and the surface of the pond, like my spirit, grew calm once again.

— Rachel Lovejoy, a freelance writer living in Springvale, who enjoys exploring the woods of southern Maine, can be reached via email at rachell1950@metrocast.net.