In those first years I came down
often to the frog pond—formerly,
before the earthen dam gave way,
the farm pond —to bathe, standing
on a rock and throwing pond water over me,
and doing it quickly because of the leeches,
who need but minutes to know you’re there,
or to read the mail or to scribble
or to loaf and think—sometimes of the future —
while the one deer fly
which torments every venturer into July
in Vermont, smack it dead as often
as one will, buzzed about my head.