swans

Here is a poem from several days spent with a friend in her house on the Chesapeake Bay last fall:

On the Dock

Five swans visit me each morning
with soft arrowhead wakes.
They move in and out of blue shadows,
white feathers, and shining white necks dipping and arching,
twisting over their backs.
The swans make throaty sounds,
water dripping from their beaks.  One looks at me,
with an eye tilted, as if to say, will you do as you say?
These swans do not brook excuses
or bad posture.  All are trained in ballet from a young age.

They are an occasion in themselves,
black tie every day.