108 Names of Now
A wild swan sits on her nest at the edge of the harbor, under sodium-vapor lights. Her neck is a thick, feathered snake, russet where it bends. Her eye is alive, she is at rest but she sees. Nest of scattered driftwood, resting swan. Eggs underneath, growing without changing shape. The stubs of the plane trees' arms glow against dark sky. Venus hovers centered on the new moon crescent.
On the water something dark is stretching itself, is rising and lengthening. It is a seal it is a mad nocturnal swimmer it is a swan drying his wings coming in to harbor from the vast darkness of open lake waters.
The swan is there on the nest, the swan is in the water, the swan is pulling down from his chest lining the scooped-out nest the ten pale-grey eggs. Swan from afar, come near. Swan on the nest, go out, released, shaking your tail, rubbery black feet paddling silently the slate-grey limpid lakewater.