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.