an old writer and his words

Its plump, dusty-white feathered bodysits atop the pond like an invertediceberg, as the lindens fringing the fieldshed their seeds onto the hardened soil.The swan lumbers across the surfacewith no particular urgency or directionslowed by the entropy of a late August afternoon,the laughed shouts of childrenplunging headlong to dinner,diverted to bathroomsfor the cursory sprinklingof unholy water,the…