The swan is an enigmatic creature. Swimming slowly, arriving at the end of my dock is Romeo. He looks at me intently, as if he has something he wants to communicate. I find myself doing “swan talk,” responding to Romeo’s greeting. He lifts his head emphatically, Hun humnh. The sounds dip and rise, round. Hers follow, a similar pattern but more brief. Lifting my chin also, curvy, soft vowels float from my throat. Hehn hernhm. The swans at the end of my dock on the lake know me, bring me to their world, and it also becomes my own.
Late February, yet spring is here, in the synchronous dance of the swans. Romeo rises, waves his wings and sprays water up in the air like an uncontrollable garden hose. He lifts his head, then she; it seems as they are one, dipping, lifting; preening; one side, then another. They face each other creating a heart. From the swan’s motion the water moves and with it, the light. It pulses up and down the swan’s neck, rippling over his body and mine. Romeo spreads his wings, fanning them, whirring; Whoop, Whoop; and this watery world changes. White looping circles bear blue centers surrounded by black mass, as if alive and fertile. The forms sway toward shore like the swans' necks, images of children of the future, uncountable generations.
I can feel the anticipation in the swan’s body, water sloshing as he shifts back and forth on his feet, preparing to reach toward my hand. My eyes shift to the simple whole grains in the bread I held in my hand. Bought with loving attentiveness, the giving of bread becomes entrée to a divine mystery – a wild animal leaving the saneness and safety of freedom to interact with me, a human. Until now, I considered communion as rare and holy; suddenly I see it as part of this earthly world of gurgles and tail waggles. My hand touches the swan’s bill, as he hums contentedly.
The idea of a responsive Universe intrigues me. When I look down over the lake from my house and spot the swan, if I signal with my heart that I am coming outside, Romeo always comes to the dock. If he is moving away, he turns around if I signal.
As evening falls, lake and sky are cloaked in the sun’s last moments, magenta and apricot. The beauty emerges also in the swans’ upraised wings. I dream of gathering flowers from the fields next to my house. A bouquet in purple and peach hues – the sunset, held in my heart; like in the swans’ wings. Here is my hope: to trust, like the swan, in our emergent humanity.
As summer emerges, the swans bring with them two tiny babies. Alice, the mother, guards carefully as the family pads out of the muck to sun along the lake shore beach. When a dog approaches, Romeo stretches up his neck and trumpets. One baby imitates him as it clamors into the lake. Downy and light, the chick scampers fast. It seems enthusiastic, even when fleeing.
For days, they have not appeared; the baby swans are gone. The female floats randomly in the distance. Both swans are wrenching out their feathers, an act of mutilation, which makes them vulnerable, as they cannot fly. Who knows why? Romeo’s wings had just grown in, perfect, like satin. Now they are in tatters, like a window painted with frost. Feathers are strewn everywhere. I gather some and brush their softness against my cheek, sharing in the grieving. Seeing their suffering, my sense of “swan” is changing. No longer is this a romanticized serene creature. Each is an individual with a personality and a history; each has a unique way of communicating and responding.
In the enigmatic dance of the swans, like a prayer, the swans affirm their reverence for life. I think of the words of Thomas Berry, in The Great Work: “Every being declares itself to the entire Universe. Every being enters into communion with other beings.” Suddenly, the common place between the swans and my dock sprung into sapphire light. I thank the swans for their rare and precious gift.
