By Michael Conti

Oil rainbows shimmered and plastic wrappers floated on the wasted pond by Harmony’s apartment. An olive-green beanie shielded her from the breeze as she stood at the weedy bank, strumming a lazy chord on her ukulele.

She turned to a cyclist who’d stopped near her. “You’d join me tomorrow, right? To clean this pond?” she asked, voice as bright as foxglove. Before he could answer, she plunged into a song—a silly, hopeful tune about turtles and trash. Without waiting for his answer, Harmony was already knee-deep, fishing out a soda can.

She forgot, of course, that she’d said “tomorrow.” The same afternoon, still muddy and humming, Harmony stopped near the bakery, hands waving an imaginary baton. “It’s magical, you know, how wildlife comes back when you give it a chance,” she said to Lucille, who’d paused during her afternoon walk. “Could use more hands. Would you help tomorrow? Or wait, maybe today?”

Lucille hesitated at this sudden invitation, only to find herself swept into an impromptu chorus: “Ducks in the daisies, frogs in the fog!” Harmony plucked melodies, laughter blending with awkward harmonies, their voices carrying across the cracked sidewalks and leafy shade.

By nightfall, Harmony no longer remembered who she’d convinced and when. She had scribbled a list on her palm but then washed her hands and wiped the ink away. Tomorrow, she thought, someone will come. Or maybe they won’t. It felt weird to her to know that she felt as though she visited a hundred friends but not being able to remember any of them. She had learned to not expect or assume. She only had one thing she knew she could do: trust.

Thursday morning, Harmony was surprised when Kevin showed up. He brought gloves, and he brought friends—a barista in a teal jacket and a retiree in neon running shoes. They arrived in ones and threes, getting Harmony’s name only if they caught her between refrains.

Lucille appeared mid-morning, juggling trash bags and her own disbelief. “You were serious,” she said, breathless.

Harmony felt her cheeks lift and a smile take over her face, as wide as she had ever felt before, “We can do all the ponds!” she cried happily, looking forward to seeing all the happy ducks tomorrow. She strummed a few chords and launched into a round of “Lean on Me,” her voice somehow carrying the wild hope of open windows and parks reborn.

Gradually people joined their efforts, likely drawn to the procession of colorfully dressed strangers singing through the park. A dog walker lugged a crate of tangled fishing line. A group of students filming a TikTok challenge joined, then forgot their phones existed, the drive to record themselves replaced with swaying to Harmony’s music as they filled bags with litter.

Harmony, always moving, always humming, would start a task, then forget halfway and wander to another. But it didn’t bother her. Others filled in the space when she left, keeping the progress going. She greeted the new arrivals as if they were old friends, forgetting introductions, repeating stories. “This little frog,” she likely said more than once, “has the saddest eyes! How could we not help?”

Together, the group swept around the pond. Then, following Harmony’s suggestion and lead, they moved on, singing as they worked. To the next pond, and the next.

By sunset, ten strangers stood knee-deep in reeds, drying pond-muck on their arms, harmonizing softly as Harmony led the chorus. She paused, kneeled by a wayward hatchling, and pressed her heart to the task—a gentle hand, a whispered tune. Around her, laughter rose at old jokes retold, frustration melted by melody, and names, once forgotten, became familiar.

Someone ordered pizzas for the drying crew. Someone else organized a tool run. Others sorted recyclables. Harmony looked out amongst the crows and realized that subtly and without anyone making a big deal, a scruffy crowd had become a muted parade, each person humming variations of Harmony’s tunes. This was the best day ever, as far as she was concerned.

At the final pond, a little boy from the TikTok group tugged her sleeve. “Will you come sing when we do our school clean-up?”

Harmony grinned, strumming a dreamy chord. “I’d love that. Oh! But you start the song, okay?”

Voices sparkled in between glances and laughter, a chorus rising from the lull. Dusk painted teal and orange across the water, destined to be a canvas for the setting sun. Harmony watched everyone linger, sharing stories, swapping numbers, and plotting their next rescue—not with her as a leader, but together as a community of caring equals.

She leaned against a willow, humming quietly as the others tangled in new friendship and possibility—a whole movement begun with a single, half-forgotten promise, carried along by voices, kindness, and a dozen off-key songs.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Michael Conti is an author and storyteller living beneath the breathtaking Aurora in Alaska with his wife and three sons. Guided by the mantra that “fiction is fact with imagination,” he creates captivating tales that resonate with readers. Beyond writing, he finds joy in storytelling, lifelong learning, and sharing knowledge through teaching.

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