The stone skips across the glassy surface of the pond, throwing up tiny droplets with each glancing blow. One, two, three, four times it bounces, before finally settling into the water with a throaty clunk.

Small ripples emanate from the rock’s final resting place, marring the still surface of the pond only briefly before dissipating into complete calm once more.

Another stone follows the first, launched from her hand, nonchalant yet imbued with all her pent-up angst, the emotions she’d been holding back, all the little things that had added up over the years that were finally coming back up to the surface. Its spinning form slices across the water with a delicate chop, chop, chop.

A light breeze sweeps through the treetops, lulling the thin branches into a gentle sway. Sunlight scintillates through the fluttering leaves, casting a shimmering sea of light on the shore like a sky full of stars.

She steps slowly among this sparkling landscape, making each movement deliberate and careful. She takes a deep breath, inhaling the crisp, cool morning air. The days are becoming shorter, but she still has time. The rocks slide slightly under her weight, exposing the worn soles of her tattered shoes to the icy water lapping gently at her feet.

A bird sings delicately in the trees above her. Its melody undulates like a winding road, soaring up, dropping down, twisting and turning and carrying her away from her problems, and her stress, and everything weighing her down.

And all is well.


The pond is still, its surface blanketed by a thin sheet of ice not strong enough to support a person but still thick enough to obscure the pond’s depths in a shroud of mystery and intrigue. Snow piles on top of the rocks at the shore, each little mound creating its own miniature mountain with its strong base underneath and its delicate peak on top.

The air is filled with snowflakes as she strolls along the edge of the water. Big, wet clumps of snow, half-melted, a signal that the worst has passed, that renewal and rejuvenation and rebirth are on the way.

She looks up, entranced, and catches a falling snowflake on her tongue. It tastes of nothing, yet it tastes of something, metallic, acerbic, jarring. But she doesn’t mind. She catches another, and another, relishing the opportunity to regain some of that childlike fascination that everything seemed to have taken away from her.

She takes a deep breath, feeling the frozen air stab at her lungs. The days are becoming longer, and she can sense freedom in the future, freedom from stress and from worry and from all the little things that had been weighing her down.

The world is silent, smothered by the falling snow. The birds have all flown south, and so there is no song in the air but her own, a faint hum from her lips tracing the melody of some song overplayed on the radio. Its familiar melody calms her like a gentle caress on the cheek, almost imperceptible yet emotionally impactful.

The snow crunches slightly under her weight, the thick soles of her boots leaving behind heavy footprints. For this one moment, she is leaving her mark on the world, undisturbed and unmarred by the interference of others.

And all is well.


Ripples run through the water, emanating from gentle drops of rain scattered across the pockmarked surface of the pond. The cool, clear waves lap gently over small, smooth rocks, slowly but surely eroding them back into the dust from whence they came.

A light breeze runs through the trees, causing branches laden with verdant buds to sway in a gentle waltz. Small white flowers pepper the branches, releasing a strong but pleasant scent in the crisp, cool air.

The trees are alive with the dissonant tones of a myriad of birds, some with high-pitched, shrill calls and others with mournful sighs. Baby birds call out to their mothers, gaping maws eager to be filled with another meal. The forest teems with a symphony of sounds, rising, falling, twisting and turning and composing a song of hope and joy and new life.

The sun peeks out from behind the clouds, predicting the end of the light pitter patter of the raindrops. Growing leaves glisten in the warm light, each dewy drop on their surfaces reflecting vibrant shades of all the colors of the rainbow.

As the rhythmic background of the raindrops fade to silence, so too do the melodic songs of the vocal birds. Perhaps they are satisfied with their work.

All around the pond, there is peace and life and renewal to lay the rest the demons of the past, to start fresh once more.

And all is well.