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Swans
I wonder how aware they are,
what shadowy sense of self
occupies their brain. Perhaps
no more than a flicker
of consciousness glows
in the far reaches
of an inner dark,
sufficient to propel them
here and there for food
and find a mate,
just printed circuits of flesh
programmed for survival.
They seem content
in their grace, moving gently
through the sunlit water,
swimming towards me.
What picture do they have
of me. Am I just a shape
categorized by the level
of threat I pose, a button
for them to push to get
a piece of bread, an oddity
in their way.
And yet we are here,
knitted together in this gifted
moment, alive, each encased
in an identity, confined
to our little bubbles of being,
floating the surface
of some infinite
and unfathomable mystery
where all minds meet -
although I'm eternally grateful
that I'm not a swan,
I don't like cold feet.
Copyright ©
Paul Willason
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