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Two autumns ago I dug a small pond in a small garden: roughly 2 metres by 1.5, 60 centimetres at the deepest point, with a liner, two planting shelves and a beach of pebbles at one end. I did not stock it with anything. Everything in it now arrived on its own, by air or over the lawn, and I have been writing down what turned up and when ever since.

This site is that list, with the dates: the first water boatman, the first frog, the newts I did not expect, the dragonflies that left their skins on the iris stems. There is also the blanket weed, the leaves and the things I got wrong. It is a census of a puddle.