Monday, January 1, 2007

Then We Became Swans

You and I, wild, flying home,
our two long-necked shadows
rippling over the valley floor.
It is good, mounting the cool air,
your wing beside my wing,
but I am tired, and home is far.
Where is the shine of silver water?
Where are the rushes to shelter our sleeping,
shoulder to shoulder, and neck to neck?
Your sleek head, your feathered back
are my home. Below us,
the man raises the gun and aims.

Cheryl Gatling

published in The Cliffs "soundings"

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