The Swan | The Nation

No matter the hour

of night or day,

she's there--always

at one shaded bank

of the pond

or the other.

Always alone.

Once, it almost frightened me--

she was in the center,

not a ripple on the lake,

not her mate,

nor another wading bird in sight--

so regal and pure, and unharmed,

so unafraid--it seemed

of solitude,

so sure.

Imagine, desire gone,

no longer essential.

Not touch, perhaps one luxury--

memory--to sustain her.

And then as night falls

so brilliant and still in that darkness,

a splash of white.

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