Dancing on water

the swan glides sleepily across the black lake
is watched
followed
a simple mystery

you ask, he tells you of all his dancing
of the feel of webbing against water
the beading rain on feathers

he tells you of the flight from Montana
of the nest he built
of the one he loved

if only you could hear his voice as more than a beautiful song
you would hear his wit
understand his smile
know the content, not just the intent of his mind

Tchaikovsky knew it.
the swan will glide. Silent,
in so many ways.

A strange sort of breeze

It was a summer for falling in love. It was a breeze off the ocean in a land unimagined. You always imagine lands unimaginable. In dreams, day dreams and Friday midday naps. But they are usually like home when you imagine them. But not when you encounter them. They are like nothing you have ever imagined when you encounter them. And when you do, encounter them, you think why didn't I imagine this sooner, it is so unimaginable. And it dawns on me the reason this word has meaning.

But there was the breeze. The light and playful air. And a light on the water, as we slipped by. It was a light present. Unexpected. Gifted nonetheless. White light on silky black. and then gone.

as we slipped into the night.