(''... 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.