#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Strea
Charles River Glittering Swans
Before this world,
we passed through clouds of others.
What I call to you in this world—I must
recall from some other. . .
~ Excerpt from, For An Astronomer’s Daughter, Paul Nemser
What a spangled, blinding sun at the river’s edge this morning! And there, the swans again, paddling along, but today, the river is blue, not black, and there is such a thaw going on. I have not worn a jacket! No gloves! It’s slushy through the snow in my boots. The swans make a hoarse bark. I think these are Mute Swans:
Brought in from Europe as an ornamental addition to parks and estates, the Mute Swan has established itself in a feral state in some parts of North America, mainly in the northeast. In some places, it has become common enough to be unpopular, and it is considered a pest in a few areas. Not really "mute"; its voice is hoarse and much quieter than those of our native swans, but its wingbeats may be heard as much as a mile away.
Walking under the trees, I stop and scan the snow where I check daily. I am looking at fallen scraps of bark, their shapes and colors, assorted puzzle pieces. I think, well, this makes me so happy. Perhaps that sounds strange. But I am happy on my knees examining it, finding beauty in these scraps. But I keep going around the wetlands and river’s edge, the ice going, going. Suzi and I tread very lightly over the wetlands, the foundation is melting. Still, the ribbon of brook running past us, also glittering this morning in the sun. I am out of sorts in my mood, and trying to get into my sorts. Whatever that means. Even far from the geese I can hear them talking. And I find this soothing and interesting. A relief. I am eavesdropping. I get sorted well enough, and start the day. My youngest is still here. There’s hectic energy, we’re renovating a room, and there’s bustle and distraction. In the late afternoon I come out of my office and look into the yard by the garden fence, under some trees, there are three tall figures, my three children have been on a walk together with the dogs. I stand and watch them talking, in their masks, socially distanced. It’s a satisfying to see them wanting to be together. I don’t go out; I want to just observe them from a distance. Tonight I have my Aim for Astonishing monthly workshop. So rich, so deep, so engaging, so satisfying, the lovely mix of writers. Frank has gotten his vaccine and played tennis and come home a bit tired. Asks for Advil, which he never does. He is sore. I’m glad he has had it and so is he, and may more and more us be vaccinated very soon.
