The Swan

The black swan sails, noble and firm, gliding across the water, a feather-like whip of wind
that flows beneath her, profound, and endless. She takes her time; she teaches the stillness in the spread of landscapes—
a muted grace, a reverent calmness— it speaks of what the river knows, what every bird has felt adrift on the whisper of twilight.

Some rage but others hum— stretch down; feel what the sun reflects, fill in the lines, sink deep into trance. And though the currents rise and swirl like spirited fingers pulling you down, let the river caress a heart like stone. Everything flows elegantly, you are part of what’s known—yg a swan of longing,
wrapped in the richness of soft foam. Hold on; every thread connects— you manage to be alive; you choose your song.

• Mary Oliver