I recently rode my bike to a trail leading to Pequot Pond. The narrow path was pressed down with brittle pine needles. Insect-softened logs forced me to stop and lift my bike over them. A hill curved down to the water’s edge. Someone tends the trail, keeping it clear, but I rarely see anyone on it. I love coasting out of the woods and onto the water’s edge.
A sandy patch slips into the clear lake where smooth brown and white pebbles cover the bottom until the depth drops off into darkness. A white birch, long fallen, shades the spot where I always imagine largemouth bass lingering. I’ve fished there, but never caught anything.
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