I’m Swan this morning, my shadow gliding over the estuary below,
sun scattering itself across the rippling waterways between reed islands.
When I sat in my place of prayer this morning I didn’t know who I would become,
where I would journey to.
It was Swan who carried me here,
me a tired old man,
now sailing as feathered praise above dancing marsh grass,
becoming all things beauty.
My Swan soul feels bigger than my old man soul
but I know they are both part of this glorious watercolor
drown in sheets of rain water,
blurring the green, tawny, rust and auburn feelings of every growing, living and dying thing here.
We are rivers of being awash together,
becoming light again.
When I leave my prayer circle Swan will carry me through my day,
me, an old man who never knows who he will become tomorrow.
