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 the black depth of my sorrow
Bears a white rose of flame.
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My Thursday morning was pretty quiet, but after lunch I went with Paul to Bear Creek Shopping Center -- he had a dentist appointment and I figured I'd get some shopping done, which included high-power acetone to see if I can take off my wedding manicure and a pair of clearance rack black shoes to replace the ones I destroyed walking in snow and salt in Boston. (I was good and did not buy the gorgeous but impractical Betsey Johnson floral heels.)
My evening has involved my Thursday night chat group, leftover avgolemono soup with pita and hummus for dinner, the Terrapins men losing, the Terrapins women winning, and a couple of episodes of House. But before that, we took a walk to the park and ran into our neighborhood handyman, who told us that he had seen migrating trumpeter swans in Lake Sammamish, so we went out on the dock and watched these five among the ducks, herons, and eagles:
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