these are swans, the shadow and light made them black. Poetic license. It’s a thrill, those whooshing wings

Black bird falling from a silver cloud ~~~ rising and falling like a baby’s breath and I am one with him in flight; I feel him move me. Far from home, this bird is every bird and his welcome a song I recognize.

Oh to fly! Out of this body and away. To sing, and not be conscious of one’s singing. To sing because you must. To fly, with not a thought to your arrival . . .

LBM 5/29/03