As
I pull my way onto the bridge
a
swan flies across and over it
something
I have seen before
once,
somewhere in a scattered past
Now
she’s back
her
neck craned
and
huge wings
beating
hard
She
seems as if she’s soaring
relative
to my misdirected path
making
a mockery
of
my transition
Colors
are ceded to youth,
nests,
to their season,
while
pathways
are
borrowed from the sky
They
pierce the fringes
of
the soul
and
then
depart.
