At first she is a lone writer
reaching down into the taupe
of the lake.
Feeling for weed-words,
a ribbon of sentence.
Finding a morsel,
she pushes it under herself,
building a book,
a raft for her species.
That black snake of a neck
tripped with red
is constantly scribbling.
Then he arrives, swan-sails in.
She launches
from her self-created island
to glide and moor beside him.
But first the dance.
Chest thumping the water,
beaks dipping,
necks cross-ways and up and back.
And yes, there are times
when in symmetry
they form the outline
of a ruffled heart in black.
He fast treads water
and lifts onto her,
wings thrown back and beating.
At the peak
they honk and almost squeal
then straighten their necks to the sky.
And who is to say
they don’t feel ecstasy,
satisfied lovers
knowing their love
satisfied as well?