Perhaps, <br />in the exaggerated grace <br />of his weight <br />settling, <br /> <br />the wings <br />raised, held in <br />strike-or-embrace <br />position, <br /> <br />I recognized <br />something more <br />than swan, I can't say. <br /> <br />There was just <br />this barely defined <br />shoulder, whose feathers <br />came away in my hands, <br /> <br />and the bit of world <br />left beyond it, coming down <br /> <br />to the heat-crippled field, <br /> <br />ravens the precise color of <br />sorrow in good light, neither <br />black nor blue, like fallen <br />stitches upon it, <br /> <br />and the hour forever, <br />it seemed, half-stepping <br />its way elsewhere-- <br /> <br />then <br />everything, I <br />remember, began <br />happening more quickly.<br /><br />Carl Phillips<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/leda-after-the-swan/
