Swan

This is no wild place that I have come upon. A park, in the city, with a crowded pond, both on and around: web-footed, pawed and shoed. On my own two feet, I carry a heavy load today, going back home. This is no wild place; no place where they are alone, but somehow they are. They have found a seclusion of their own, but not a separation. They are here with everything. Yet, solitary.
Two swans, somehow out of place here among the common things of a park in the city in the middle of spring. Standing on the edge of a pond which has a cement edge and no earthy bottom. Among abandoned bottles and wet and soggy newspapers filled with the past; among fallen petals of trees shedding the heavy weight of blossoms, only later to take the burden of fruit. Here in the litter and fragments of our lives, they raise their necks in a wide arch, ruffle a feather or two and preen themselves. Taking away what is not needed, old down or a split and tattered feather. They, like the trees, know that we cannot hold on. Hold on.
They let go again of this moment, stretch their necks high and spread their wings into an effortless elegance, here, with everything. Then a trumpet and they are off and up and away. After the echo of their call and flap of wings, I hear the snore of the drunk on the bench, the bark of a dog, the delight of a child splashing in water. Here with everything, yet solitary. I go home, my load left behind.