We have a pond before our home,
its waters alive with twenty great koi,
thirty goldfish flickering like coins of light,
and a pair of suckers grazing the algae.
Beside it rises a queen of flowering trees—
Amherstia nobilis, crimson-robed and regal.
One morning a kingfisher alighted on her branch,
then plunged into the pond,
emerging with a goldfish glittering in its beak.
It feasted there, jeweled against the blossoms.
We tried to drive the bird away, but failed.
Day after day it returned,
perched upon the branch,
snatched another goldfish,
and flew off, leaving us defeated.
At last, we spread nets across the pond,
leaving only a small gap to feed the fish.
The next day the kingfisher came,
found no way to dive,
and, greedy, slipped through the opening.
We closed the gap and caught it.
What a marvel it was—
a living jewel flashing in our hands:
its back a river of sapphire,
its wings turquoise glimmer dipped in sunlight on water,
its breast a blaze of amber meeting a white throat,
its crimson feet and dagger bill completing the portrait—
a dart of fire and water in every dive.
The children begged to keep it.
We placed it in a cage by the pond,
then went inside to fetch rope
to hang the cage in safety.
But while we were away,
a stray cat came prowling.
It toppled the cage, pried it open,
and devoured the bird.
When we returned, only feathers remained,
and the cat sauntered off,
its hunger sated, its crime complete.
In rage we raised the air gun,
and killed the cat.
So we were left with eight goldfish lost,
a kingfisher dead,
a cat slain and buried—
and a pond that seemed emptier than before.
