The proposition was all swans were white,

     A thesis swans here never got to swim.

 

Like these two, slitting the silver scrim of morning

    Open to receive an early rain.

 

Each moment, if you find your way to it,

    Is unforeseen, improbable as this one,

 

Watched over by the only white thing here,

   The egret on the shore.

                                             What makes the moment

 

Mythic is that the birds show up in it

    At all, inhabiting their black-swan cool

 

As if it were their everyday attire.

    Like you, imperfectly adapted, love,

 

To what the way of things requires. Your smile

    The white that flashes when the moment flies.