That gave a neighbor a perfect welcome gag: telling the Vearses he was a tax collector who would charge them for the extra property. Sometimes it boings mischievously around as if the pond were a pinball machine, sailing, for example, into Richard and Beverly Vears's backyard just hours after they moved in. It is a curiosity and sometimes a nuisance for the 20 or so homes around the shoreline of this nine-acre pond in Springfield, Mass. Island Pond's island has been floating for as long as anyone can remember, buoyed by a mat of sphagnum moss and gases from decomposing plants. "But this time, it didn't make any noise." Renna, 51, a roofing and siding sales manager. "Normally when it floats you can actually hear the roots rip - it sounds like ripping up carpet," said Mr. Renna's backyard, an interloper squatting in stubborn silence. Then, with an insouciant shrug, it came to a standstill in Mr. Renna's house - crushing his three-foot chain-link fence, swamping his red-blue-and-purple flagstone patio, wrecking his dock, flooding his shed, hobbling his weeping willow, and drowning the oregano, cilantro, tomatoes and peppers in his garden. The island, about the size of a football field, made a beeline for Mr. "I said, 'That wind's going to blow that thing right over here.' Ten minutes later it did. Renna looked out across the pond, which borders his backyard. Or so it seemed one Saturday evening a few weeks ago. The island of Island Pond had it in for Andrew Renna.
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