Soon

He asks me when they’re coming, swings my hand
inside its thin pink glove. I answer, Soon,
and smile. Third date. I really like this man.
I check my watch again. It’s just past noon

when both the swans come, plodding down a side
of Woody Island, pausing, plopping in.
They swim towards the bank. They search and find
some grubs for lunch. He watches, with a grin.

They sail away. They’re heading back to bed,
to nap, I tell him. Suddenly, they stop
and seem to wash. At first, they plunge their necks
beneath the water, rise together, drop

their beaks upon their lower feathers, stroke,
and then resume the movement in and out
with greater force. He chuckles as they rock;
I laugh. Across the lake there comes a shout:

Go on, my son! And necks entwine and wind,
the male ascends, the female seems to swoon.
He thrusts, he holds her head below their tide;
a finger strokes my palm. I whisper, Soon.