Plumage

I've just dug out this poem I wrote when I was just thirteen. Thought it might entertain you.


The shot from the hunter's gun
Rings through the air.
The waterfowl fly up in panic;
The hunter's hand slides through his hair.

The Swan King has been shot.
The moon lights up the sight
Where the graceful bird lies struggling--
He will not die without a fight.

He lies still among the reeds now,
Near his mate's nest.
Blood and wet earth mat the feathers
Upon his snow-white breast.

The hunter comes toward him
Holding an old flour-sack,
Hoping to take this wondrous white bird
Home upon his back.

A breeze ruffles the feathers;
The great wings start to stir;
The Swan King raises up his head
And emits a strange soft purr.

The volume's now increasing
Till it becomes a wordless song.
The hunter thinks he's dreaming,
But he of course is wrong.

The harsh wild beauty of this sound
Tells many wondrous tales;
Of flying free o'er lakes of mist,
And oceans full of whales;

Of giant forests where strange creatures live,
And mountains capped with snow;
Of violent storms with raging winds,
And green valleys where men never go.

Then the great white swan lays down his head
And the song returns to a purring sound;
All is silent 'cept the wind in the reeds
And the swan lies dead on the muddy ground.