Nomadic pond

Every spring, I dig up my pond and move it.

Last year, I found the perfect site in the far corner of the yard, nestled among ferns and mosses and wild dayliles in a low spot, shady and cool on a hot afternoon. Flat stones circled the rim. Three pond plants and three small goldfish completed the habitat.

At the time, we were in drought, but a few months later, a hurricane slogged along the coast, kicking up 4 inches of rain within hours. The water puddled until it submerged the pond, which could no longer be seen.

In the deep water, the fish swam over the rim of the pond and hid amid the floating leaf litter, twigs and chunks of bark. They celebrated their emancipation, darting and diving in their expanded home, unaware that it was only temporary.

As the water subsided, I could see the rim of the pond. To rescue the fish from doom, I crouched in the mud, spaghetti strainer in hand, but the fish were adept at hiding among floating debris. They darted this way or that, avoiding the strainer, which in turn stirred up additional rubbish.

The fish enjoyed their freedom and didn't give it up easily.

In April, I moved the pond again and began contructing a rain garden on the low shady spot. As I do every spring, I vowed never to move that pond again.