At the Edge

A disturbance in the water—
two swans dip sinuous necks up and down in a kind of frantic rhythm, 
churning the stream into froth, until the male 

mounts her, pins her head under with his beak, the whole thing over
in less than ten seconds. Then they’re up twining their necks
as if they might spiral into a knot, 

the male stretches his body towards the sky, half out of the water, 
shakes his tail like a satisfied dog, while she drifts off 
in her own direction, preening her feathers. 

Understand that here, along the highway, the bank is littered 
with beer cans and broken umbrellas, plastic bags caught 
in branches, the river, murky and shallow, 

can hardly be called a river, the swans are strong and mean
and faithful. I saw one, further up on this same river, chase a terrified paddler, 
keeping pace with his canoe until its point was made.

This day it was hot and my knee hurt. 
Another minute, and I’d have turned back. Then that odd splashing 
drew me to the water’s edge—

whatever my indeterminate belief, I believe I am allowed to see 
from time to time, a brightness, neither innocent nor random, 
that disturbs the waters.