Prose and ponds...

"Rejoice with me", my father said, "no longer do fish in mud, lie dead. The grave digger had himself some idears, same ones landed muted between my two ears. There's a tunnel that drains from yonder Wal-Mart, that bypassed the pond when a rain would start. Not a might too soon he dug up a trench, and lo and behold that last rain done drenched that lot with plenty of water to spare, as it poured, drained and followed that path down to where, a pond full of fish minus twenty or so, are happily swimming, their pond overflows."