Yesterday Sue and I drove out to Buck Lake. I called it our swan song as it may be our last swim of the season. The sun was warm and got rather low and golden as we whiled away the afternoon in between swims and serious talks. There was a group of women, similarly aged who had brought out all the accouterments of a beach afternoon: food, wine, blow up paddle board, blankets, tablecloth. It was like Manet’s The Bathers; all light and ease. Oh, what a glorious afternoon.
One of the women brought their dog, Mac, a golden retriever, a bit aged, like us, with a goofy presence. He kept swimming and then collapsing and hung around our table until I gave him a pretzel. Then, as if he had adopted us immediately without checking our references, he woofed for more and woofed for more. He was saying “we’re all family here, after all.”
*This term derived from the legend that, while they are mute during the rest of their lives, swans sing beautifully and mournfully just before they die.
Swans sing before they die— ‘t were no bad thing
Should certain persons die before they sing.
-Coleridge-
For some reason, this swan needed a harp. In the old fables, she was a cappella.
Hello. Yes, this is Dog 