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.