The Swan

The Swan

Poetry

Facebook
Twitter
Email
Flipboard
Pocket

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.

Dear reader,

I hope you enjoyed the article you just read. It’s just one of the many deeply reported and boundary-pushing stories we publish every day at The Nation. In a time of continued erosion of our fundamental rights and urgent global struggles for peace, independent journalism is now more vital than ever.

As a Nation reader, you are likely an engaged progressive who is passionate about bold ideas. I know I can count on you to help sustain our mission-driven journalism.

This month, we’re kicking off an ambitious Summer Fundraising Campaign with the goal of raising $15,000. With your support, we can continue to produce the hard-hitting journalism you rely on to cut through the noise of conservative, corporate media. Please, donate today.

A better world is out there—and we need your support to reach it.

Onwards,

Katrina vanden Heuvel
Editorial Director and Publisher, The Nation

Ad Policy
x