Westward

Westward in the winter mist unwavering wing-beat rhythm thrusting purposeful powerful pale creatures of a pale world, outstretched magnificence reshaped from the haughty elegance of arched necks and curved wing-folds white on a summer’s placid lake. On a cold foggy morning in Dorset, England, in January, 1992, I heard the distinctive wingbeats of swans approaching. Three of them passed by just to the north of me, giving me a very brief view before they merged back into the mist. What a wonderful privilege to delight in God’s Creation!