The Swans

All day I have thought of the swans

that flew skyward, bellowing,

maundering at first,

immense and web-footed,

fanning tousled wings,

parting the stream

then surging through air.

I know you will pass and return,

your body tense, then writhing,

undulant, coiled in sleep,

your silver eyes mirroring my eyes,

your hands raveled and free,

that somewhere the swans have alighted

on lucent water,

their spiral forms

utterly denying

turbulent flight.