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(''... making of mud and feathers poetry.'' Patric Dickinson)

The swan flounders

at the edge of the lake,

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her broken wing

lifting and falling in the mud,

struggling to find again

the secret of feathered flight.

Now her mate

descends from the open sky

to comfort her -

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to fly in short circles, land, and wait,

to fly up again and land and wait


The swans commune. The lake mud cannot hide

the flickering white.

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