Cyclones turning off the shore, Seabird-squawking skies I tour With eyes and ears fixed above, Hoping somewhere flies a dove. At my feet I feel a peck And find thereby the beak and neck Of a pale-white, prodding swan Searching for the socks I don. Stepping hastily away, I start stumbling down the bay, Wailing as would one pursued By one intent on something lewd. Rapier-like, the swan extends Its head to mine; as it sends Itself to me in frightening flight, I cease to flee and cannot fight. What until now I had not seen Comes from nowhere and in between Me and the swan: a dove glides by And takes the blow – I see it die. The swan’s bloodlust well sufficed, It goes fulfilled, my spirit sliced. No longer do I look above, Hoping somewhere flies a dove.
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