Gracefully his wings glide across the wind,
Like horsehair drawn across tightened strings.
Slowly; yes, slowly he sways
As Tourte and Montagnana play:
Sweet, Le cygne — O’ Saint-saens.
And there, in the sky, like a cloud
He floats. With his freedom allowed
And each new flap, He calls me to
Peace with his humorous tune.
He dances through the heavenly blues.
Now, watch as he plummets . . . Deep! Deep!
He settles just above the glassy sea.
(Perfect posture)
That dark mask speaks, “Leave the shore.”
I reply, a sobering retort,
“Soar. Soar. Go on, evermore.”
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