Winter’s End

The swans returned to the river today,

Stark against weak rays of afternoon light.

The only whiteness in a March landscape of gold and brown,

Reflected in winter-dark water.

 

They stood tall against the mat of broken reeds

Crushed under the weight of so much melted snow.

Necks stretching to the sky, then down seeking last year’s nest,

The old pines whisper “it begins again.”