Swan Song

by Hannah Riffell 


After he was left an orphan,

he made a habitat of winters


on lakes, ponds, and open

marshes. I called on New Year’s Day,


under the sort of incognito

also witnessed in the wild,


the body white and the eye yellow.

I felt an impulse of happiness,


feasting on mollusks and grain.

How pretty they are now, the swans,


his heart of gold, that one iron stain,

a muffled trumpet entering my dreams again.


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