And now for something completely different.

I have spent a lot of time driving, which gives way to flights of fancy.

I am too lazy to finish my poetry posting scripts on my own web site, so I'm posting this here. Very rough draft. Feel free to critique:

The Wild Swans in the Fields
Every winter
the trumpeter swans are out in
the muddy fields beside
the highway.
Soft and white, their
necks are like
lengths of yarn, coiling.
They look delicate, beautiful,
you would not guess
how agressive, strong they are.

There is an old story
about a girl turned into
a swan
with her attendent maidens.
When they transformed,
how did it feel?
Was it like changing into
tight-fitting clothes?
When they were swans,
did they think as swans?
Did they hiss at strangers,
peck with hard beaks,
their deceptively slender necks
darting in and out?

When I see the swans
in the fields, I wonder
how many
are secretly girls.
When I see a girl, I wonder
if she is secretly
a swan.


Fire away.