I stroll to the pond on the outskirts of my vinyl siding neighborhood.  Turkey vultures loom over my head, eyeing me, hoping that I will die so they can feast on my internal organs.  Green algae grows in the water and our Christmas tree from last year lays on its side, halfway submerged. 

I don’t know why dad threw the tree in there.  I suppose it is biodegradable.  I approach the water and enormous tadpoles escape my sight.  An egret treads shallow water, her neck like a giraffe’s.  Deer tracks adorn the ugly mud.  The four legged vertebrae were thirsty and came here to drink.

I feel a burning sensation on my ankle.  Multiple fire ants sting me.  These robot brains will do anything for their corpulent queen.  I brush them off, get out of the ant bed and go to the hollow, concrete sewage block.  I sit on the edge, my feet dangling over the polluted water. 

A red dragonfly zooms into view.  I watch him swoop down over the ants.  What else did he eat today?  A sand gnat?  A mosquito?  Did he prey on a newly hatched butterfly?  Did he fly around my mobile trashcan earlier today, executing houseflies?  Maybe this is his first meal in awhile.

The dragonfly makes for a blade of grass extending over the water.   A school of minnows swims nearby.  They are probably here because they expect me to feed them spoiled bread.  They have no such luxury this time around.  Hungry brim move in and the school scatters in every direction.

The wind blows, bouncing the dragonfly back and forth like a mother rocking her baby’s cradle.  And then, in an instant, a brim jumps into the air, catching the crimson insect in its mouth.  One dies so that another can live.  It’s not until someone close to us dies that we finally begin to live.