Dream of the Tundra Swan
By Joyce Sidman
Dusk fell
and the cold came creeping,
cam prickling into our hearts.
As we tucked beaks
into feathers and settled for sleep,
our wings knew.
That night, we dreamed the journey:
ice-blue sky and the yodel of flight,
the sun's pale wafer,
the crisp drink of clouds.
We dreamed ourselves so far aloft
that the earth curved beneath us
and nothing sang but
a whistling vee of light.
When we woke, we were covered with snow.
We rose in a billow of white.
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Tuesday felt so much like a Monday that I forgot it was Mardi Gras until after lunch. Meanwhile I did laundry, sorted photos from the weekend, and waited for the forecast rain and hail that never arrived. So we went for a walk to see all the neighborhood flowers, picked up a freecycled candle, and had gumbo for dinner that was in the crock pot all day.
My Voyager group watched Bliss, an episode so terrible that none of us remembered a thing about it, then Paul and I started watching The Lost Symbol, which we'd meant to watch months ago and kept forgetting about; I've forgotten many details from the book, which is probably just as well. Wild birds at Mason Neck, including swans and hawks:
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