Pond is kind of a different word. It almost would be difficult to say. It is not exactly pleasurable to say. But there was a little pond in my youth down the slope from my house. A brother or two got pushed in. My brothers and I had lots of fun at that pond. I recall floating paper boats on its surface. There may have been a few small fish in it that were never or seldom caught. We would throw rocks in and try to skip them to the other side. Our older cousins had seen many a pond so weren’t appreciative of our little pond. They would probably call it a puddle. Younger cousins were not as well-versed in huge lakes, bass, trout, and other fish of a certain size. So their awe was undersized just as the pond was big enough for little boys and little girls to peer into and make some innocent wish. It was these players in the garden of good that made the pond important. Otherwise it would have just have been a drop of water in an ocean of time. But to us it was as the Red Sea. It was a place of miracles. The miracle of life.