Like blown paper, shaken from the storm, it sailed
Over the rice puddles
Where minor birds scrounge crops,
Scrape mud and insects from green shoots.
It swept down, lightning behind it,
Desire tight between white wings.
The girl walked alone.
Her plain shirt clung to sweat,
She gathered photographs and bulrushes
In the wet fields.
She stared to see the swan approach,
The neck, a spear caught in silk parasails
Broader than her arms.
It will turn--will it turn? It will not--
And the wings
Covered her, the impact slighter than a tackle,
But far faster, she
Gasped, stunned--and the thin vanes blocked her eyes,
And she choked in the road
Sought her out
Pulled its throat to her face--
Small feathers in her hands, thin muscled bones,
She pulled the snake-neck close
And bit it off.