Longing...

The black swan swims alone on the lake. His proud plumage just as silky as those of the white swans who rule the daylight, his head held high a king without a crown. With his grace he slices the surface of the glassy pond like a diamond yet leaving no wounds behind him. He glides across the night with only the moon for company until the dew returns and trickles down his back; then he can feel her touch and his heart stops, his world pauses, his life ends and he is in that moment alone with her.

A distant violin cries. The night is haunted by the sounds and yet he swims along and alone. The black swan does not sing nor does he call out in the darkness. His mind is filled with lofty things and no words to contain them. His silence is his pen. His silence is his curse.

As the morning sun returns and her scent is carried away in the morning breeze he spreads his ebony wings and sails aloft into the morning chasing the moon across the void to another place, in another time to be with her.