Of the hundred swans in West Bay not one flies south in winter. They breathe the dust of snow swirling in flumes across the water, white as their whiteness; bones slighted by hunger they move through the clots of ice, heads looped low and tucked to the wind, looking for fish in the deep greenness of water. Now in the country, far from the Bay, from a dark room I see a swan gliding down the street, larger than a car, silent. She'll need a fish the size of a human to feed her hunger, so far from the water. But there's nothing to eat between those snowbanks. She looks toward my window. I think: Go back to the Bay, beautiful thing, it was thirty below last night. We gaze at each other until my breath has glazed the window with frost. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE DAY IS DONE by PHOEBE CARY SONG FOR A LITTLE HOUSE by CHRISTOPHER DARLINGTON MORLEY THE DAY OF JUDGEMENT by JONATHAN SWIFT SONNET TO THE HUNGARIAN NATION by MATTHEW ARNOLD ODE TO THE PAST by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN |