The pond was most striking at dusk. The yellow-green and dusky red of early fall painted the still surface, reflected from wispy trees shedding their leaves along the woody banks. The darkening sky above filled the rest of the frame with a striking contrast of deep purple-blue.
A crow observed the scene from the pale skeleton of a dead oak. Kieran sat unmoving in his equally motionless kayak, the bright yellow plastic divided in two perfect halves by the mirror of the water’s surface. The wind was still. All was quiet. He closed his eyes for a moment, at peace.
He didn’t immediately notice the ripples moving across the pond. When he did, he wondered at the odd way the image distorted, slightly askew at the start, growing more and more abstract as the rings widened, pushed along by the wind or some other disturbance.
Kieran frowned. Odd that there was no breeze.
The water turned white with roiling foam. Something dark broke the surface; the mirror vanished. The crow called out over and over, alone at first, then joined by its brethren all along the shore in a chorus of echoing cries.
The pond grew still again. Crimson-tinged trees and violet sky reappeared on the surface. An empty yellow kayak floated quietly in the center of the painting, waiting for the artist to return.
