In April the baby swans are usually born. The most I have ever seen born at one time is five. The attrition rate is terrible due to snapping turtles and dogs and to my surprise, owls. We are lucky in any given year if one survives. In the spring of 1995 a group of three baby swans was born, or prehaps I should more accurately say, hatched. The people in our village watched with great delight as they would swim with their closely bonded parents. During the course of the summer, to our great sadness, we lost two of the babies. The third baby however, was growing fast and strong and by the beginning of Labor day weekend we all new he would make it. The large male swan and his life long mate seemed so proud of their accomplishment! At the very end of the Labor day weekend in early September a hit and run driver killed the beautiful male right in front of a large group of children. The constable later confirmed the driver was intoxicated. We were all speechless with grief. It was almost as though a village child had been struck. Later that night this poem occurred to me.

Gareth Crispell (c) September 1995