He calls every pond he doesn’t know the name of Walden Pond, but only if he likes the look of it, only if it looks like a pond he’d like to live beside, in a small wooden cabin sheltered by shade trees.
The place he lives in has hundreds of such ponds, many of which already have names—Little Hosmer Pond, Pond Lilly Pond, Schuyler, Schuster, Liverpool, etc—but just as many do not.
It’s these nameless ponds to which he’s drawn.
It’s to one of these that he travels to today for an hour or two of silence and a chance to fill a couple pages transcribing birdsong and soft breezes.
It’s late-August. It’s still sunny. The leaves, barely moving, begin to change.