at bay

grass rustles near the pond,

mingling with the fearful whispers

of a father shielding his daughter

from the water’s edge. 

he tries to draw her steps back

onto the concrete-paved safety

of the sidewalk, with harsh tugs 

on her frayed shirtsleeves, 

warning her of rabid mouths

that bite relentlessly

to guard their domain

even as their throats are wrung.

behind the tall grass, he says,

are the red-rimmed, beady eyes

of creatures who can find 

your softest spots of skin to tear.

the girl, seeing no reason to obey 

a terror she had not yet tasted, 

shakes off her father’s grasp,

and steps into the nesting grounds.

her steps crackle on the dry grass 

and startle the resting chicks. 

a cacophony erupts from their beaks, 

alarming the grown birds nearby.

the swans rush to bruise the girl’s arms

with beaks barbed like spear-points,

leaving a speckle of violet lesions, 

one for each cygnet she had frightened.

shrieking, she dashes back 

to her father, seeking his hands 

to bandage the stinging souvenirs

from her lesson learned.

among the reeds, the swan’s necks

gleam like upright blades

from her view at the pond’s edge,

in the fading light of dusk.