‘Birds-of-the-Beyond’, Mountain-Ana called them.
She bought us a book.
The picture of the Lir-Clan huddled on a rock in the middle of a raging sea,
slipping into Swan-Vests still remains, clear as each new day that dawns.
“They’re here!” she said, her eyes aflame.
I smiled at her memory, “They’re where?”
“Not possible,” I said grabbing my coat.
But I was wrong.
It had rained heavily overnight and two swans now swam
on an impossible lake in the middle of Our-Back-Field.
We watched them all morning
and wept when they flew away.