February 6, 2012
The Whistling Swans
In February skies the swans came down
Great wings arching like hang gliders' silk
Black feet out, they'd skid onto the icy Bay
And in the rivulets that opened in between the chunks
And there they'd bob and dunk
And stretch their necks and fan their wings
Like little bread loaves turned to angels in the foam.
Skipjacks in the middle distance
Caught the morning sun.
If the tide was low, the seagulls screamed
And called me down from where I was.
I had to go. It was an ancient chord that pulled.
And being there, on that fair sand
With all it's little birds and crabs and prehistoric things
Something in me settled down and sighed.
In this corner of the world I was all right.
And the swans would call, their musicality so real
A soft and hooting, melancholy song
They learned on northern steppes or in the sky.
I didn't stay, of course. Life is that way.
We go from paradise to paradise looking for the shoe
That fits. The chair just right, the place
That knows our face.
I think native people must have spared themselves illusion
And settled into the land their souls have chosen
Free from argument from sated minds.
For me, it seemed that he who seeks is he who finds.
And welcomes destiny as it unwinds.