SwanSong
Out of the grey sky lake
The six joined by two
Appear near the islands
Flying Not ducks not geese
Eight Winging in a line
Tip to wingtip at eye level
Contact with one Recognition
Then connection with the gliding
White feathering Swans approaching
The shoreline and my doorstep
Rebelliously abruptly one turns
Leading the apparition westward
Followed by a squawking chorus
Of fading complaints and dreams
Slowly the apprehensive afternoon
Regains its grey breathlessness
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