The Grace of White Wings
At the threshold of autumn and winter,
when the pond wears a veil of ice,
and the last open waters
hold the fading warmth of fall,
the white swans arrive.
Like prayers carried on wings,
they gather in the quiet,
their long necks tracing circles
upon the silver mirror of the pond.
Some bow their heads
beneath the cooling water,
others lift their wings
like great white sails,
stretching toward the heavens,
as though remembering
the freedom of the sky.
I stand upon the shore,
my feet rooted in Mother Earth,
my arms opening like wings
in the ancient dance of the flying goose.
For a moment,
there is no separation
between their movements and mine,
between breath and feather,
between the stillness of the water
and the motion of my heart.
I breathe in purity.
I breathe out light.
And then,
as though hearing a secret invitation,
eight swans lift their voices.
Their songs ripple across the pond,
awakening the silence.
They begin to run upon the water,
their great wings gathering air,
their feet kissing the surface
one last time
before the earth releases them.
Up they rise,
circling, singing,
white wings against the autumn sky.
Not yet leaving,
not quite staying,
dancing in the sacred space
between here and there.
Six return to the sheltered waters,
settling like petals
upon the stillness.
One circles alone,
following an unseen calling
toward the western light.
And another gathering rises,
their voices woven together,
circling once more
before turning east.
I wonder if they fly for joy,
for the sheer delight
of feeling the wind beneath their wings,
of remembering that the sky
is also their home.
And I stand in wonder,
tears resting at the edges of my eyes,
my heart opening wider
than I knew it could.
For these beautiful beings
have come to rest
upon our little pond,
between the northern lands
they have known
and the southern waters
that await them.
They ask nothing of me.
Only that I witness
the purity of their presence,
the grace of their movements,
the beauty of their becoming.
Soon the waters will freeze,
and the white wings
will disappear beyond the horizon.
But something of their light
will remain within me.
A feather of stillness.
A breath of grace.
A circle of belonging.
And the remembrance
that even in the season of letting go,
life still gathers,
sings,
and rises
on wings of joy.