It was the song of a swan I heard falling

in mist over the harbor after the ice broke

leaving the shattered pattern of a spilt goblet,

its long neck still, after splintering  the air. 
And the swan herself mingled with faints

of water flowing as the ice shrank

the edges of that strange harbor so empty

except for glass and a long unbroken silence,
others having left, holding their coats by thumbs

over their shoulders as the quiet echoed

over their footsteps as if the harbor pond

could be forgotten or left to merely happen.
But the song had been my own so many years

I knew I would know it when it came for me.