(''... making of mud and feathers poetry.'' Patric Dickinson)

The swan flounders

at the edge of the lake,

her broken wing

lifting and falling in the mud,

struggling to find again

the secret of feathered flight.

Now her mate

descends from the open sky

to comfort her -

to fly in short circles, land, and wait,

to fly up again and land and wait


The swans commune. The lake mud cannot hide

the flickering white.

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