By F.S. Flint
Under the lily shadow
and the gold
and the blue and mauve
that the whin and the lilac
pour down on the water,
the fishes quiver.
Over the green cold leaves
and the rippled silver
and the tarnished copper
of its neck and beak,
toward the deep black water
beneath the arches,
the swan floats slowly.
Into the dark of the arch the swan floats
and into the black depth of my sorrow
it bears a white rose of flame.
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I stayed up too late again yelling at the internet, so I slept late on Thursday, thinking I was having lunch with Alice because she had an appointment up this way. As it turned out, her appointment was postponed, and Paul messaged me to tell me we had to re-sign a form at the bank, so he came home after lunch and finished working from home after the bank while we watched some Runaways.
It rained the entire day, so we had squirrels and birds hiding under the deck overhang and the cats were more awake than I was. We spent the evening watching Inspector Morse, which PBS preempted the past few weeks for political news coverage, so at least they didn't do that again! In the spirit of serenity, here are some more of the swans at Elizabeth Hartwell National Wildlife Refuge in Mason Neck:
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