by Mary E. Lowd
A Deep Sky Anchor Original, October 2022
I watch the lake, peaceful and serene; white swans float on it with the graceful delicacy and stillness of ice sculptures or many-tiered, fondant-covered wedding cakes.
Then the black swans come. One after another. Crashing into the water, wings spread wide and flapping.
Progress has begun.
* * *
The black swans send ripples across the water, flustering the white swans, pressing them out of their laconic drowse. A nap that had taken over their lives, making life nothing but a dream.
The black swans land on the mirrored surface, fold their wings, and take their place.
* * *
Nothing will be the same now.
One black swan might be strange, but it can be ignored. A whole flock of them? They change the way the lake is seen.
Children will draw swans using black crayons now, filling them in with scribbles. Their swooping, curved necks will blend into the darkness of night.
* * *
We’ll think of swans as the complement of ravens — both dark-feathered: one beauties; the others clever. A dichotomy; a metaphor. Black feathers on both. Black feathers are best.
The white ones look pale and bleached now. A line drawing, which a child artist forgot to fill in.
* * *
Why are you afraid of the black swans? They’re only swans, floating on the surface of a lake, gleaming with the depth of nebulas in their feathers.
We’ve traded wedding cakes for nebulas. That cannot be a loss worth mourning.
Cake is nice. The sky is better.