The swan flute
made from the radius bone of a Whooper Swan wing
Swans flying in across the lagoon at dusk, muscled as horses.
Dark filling with bells. The swans dipped and rocked, lanterns
on black water, and we raised our phones’ small lamps
knowing that this was to be honoured, that we should bow,
set dishes of milk on the shoreline for the singers,
the messengers returning with nightfall to waiting souls
who stood beside cars with their children in winter coats
holding bags of grain, provisioned for a journey.
The swans lifted their necks, opened the great doors of
Now in an unlit house a radio plays through the night, tunes
rubbed soft. I think of wingbones tilting to the slipstream,
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