Swan in Spring

A poem.

Swan in spring

Each morning you are the white dot on our dark pond,
silently patrolling six acres of water while your mate
sits on the nest behind the neighbor's.

Your world is placid, elegant, serene, except when
that joker, the Canada Goose, comes waltzing by
to wink at the Mrs., peek at the eggs, a lot of cheek

for a bloke with a bill. An aristocrat doesn't
throw punches, so you puff your feathers,
swell your chest and steam toward the offender

who leads you back and forth across the pond
on a leash of sass, merrily measuring your
ponderous beauty, offended dignity.

Finally he leaves to annoy someone else
and the waters still, perfectly reflecting the curve
of your stately neck against the new green leaves.

Scott Moncrieff

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