My Swan Song
Alewife Brook Reservation, Cambridge, MA
By the pond in spring, we had some repartee. I swanned
down the path, where, in heart-stopping majesty, a swan
fixed its eyes on me. I stopped to admire it and to coo
Hello, gorgeous. It hissed its reply—no fancy-free swan
of storybooks . . . perhaps a cob with a nest quite near
and eggs keeping warm beneath his beloved she-swan.
The bird marched toward me with his beak open wide,
massive wings unfurling. I made my plea to the swan,
Don’t mind me—I’m leaving now! The five-foot bird
pursued me down the path. I had to flee that swan.
I later learned that cobs might fight anything white.
My shirt made this Crane a rival, a would-be swan.
The Robertolink
The name’s pronounced with two rolled Rs.
The males cavort like movie stars,
feathered Don Juan avatars,
when in Brazil, their winter den.
There this northern citizen
yearly thinks he’s born again:
extending one black wing in twirls
and slow flamenco swoops and whirls
he’s learned from watching dancing girls.
In spring, alas, he’s northward bound—
back to fields where he is found
a bobolink, on common ground.