Gonzo’s Pond is invisible on moonless nights—a black hole framed by the glow of Tampa to the southwest and the relentless march of land development to the west. The marsh trees, forming a jagged silhouette of absolute black, crown the picture like sentinels of the wild.
But it’s a noisy and vibrant dark hole, alive with chirps, grunts, and the occasional guttural growl of a night gator looking for a little sexy time. Life moves on, just as it should.
Summer is coming to Gonzo’s Pond.
No traffic hums after bedtime. The only sound breaking the hush is the steady drone of air conditioning units, waging their endless battle against a heat that rarely dips below 80 degrees and a humidity that never falls below “way too damned humid.”
I am Gonzo, and this is my pond. Pay no mind to what the neighbors may say.
It’s Gonzo’s Pond.
By day, the pond sparkles, its surface shattered by leaping fish and kingfishers diving after them. You can tell if a gator is skulking beneath the surface by the eerie absence of turtles. A family of river otters scurries between the pond and the marsh, always in a frantic White Rabbit rush to somewhere just out of reach. From finches to great blue herons, birds stalk the shores all day, and if you’re lucky, a sandhill crane family might stop by just long enough to bless you with their presence.
Gonzo’s Pond is my piece—and my peace—of Heaven. It became everything I needed at the moment I needed saving.
It’s where I think and heal. Where I heal my thinking.
It’s where I learn, day by day, how to be the person I am right now.
But those are topics far too deep for what is, in truth, barely a pond. Maybe they belong to other nights, to other talks. Not this moonless night, wrapped in its blinding, life-filled darkness.
This night is for thinking. For dreaming. For learning to love the darkest nights.
