Brilliant white floats
amid dusky reflections,
grays billowing above,
darkest green of lake below.
The last orange
fixes one cloud
in nature’s spotlight,
the last throbbing color of the day.
And still the swan
moves silently
with no apparent effort,
neck in a perfect curve.
A dozen geese
form a line
like an escort
and the swan swims with it,
two geese before and ten behind,
her light feathers contrasting with their dark.
Then the clouds finally
drain of color
and multitudes of gray prevail,
a surprising personal hope
pinned to that slow whiteness.
The parade disperses,
who can say why,
until the swan swims back,
the geese queue up,
and begin to glide back
along the same
invisible straight line,
but the other direction!
Who’s baton cued this?
Was all this for me,
pen and paper in hand,
so I could find
some words to share?
Now they are off
to huddle for the night
around the blackening shore,
and we all must wait
for the promise of dawn.