It's been cold this summer,
I'm inside this delicate house
more than I'd like to be,
Watching through
the glass window - nature is a moving
picture,
in my backyard
the lake shimmers -folding with the wind,
The gray clouds are often brighter
than I expect of them,
The water rises to my lawn
at times,
A swan swims through it,
Her nose always looks so
congested
- eating the grass or the worms
and possibly
the small bits of wood
from my fireplace,
She's heavy and light-footed
and those eyes are
pitch black - wings absolutely white,

I remember the day
you went into the middle
of my lake,
The kayak ripped through
as your paddle
skimmed the surface,
The prized fight
with that swan
you were so beset on,
no doubt you were better
for the job,
My canoe right beside yours,
Maybe I saw her
fly through the middle - Her wings
wider than anything
you could have possibly expected,
Or maybe she broke your neck
with her crest,
Then again,
Could you have flown away together?