by Bruce Morton
It is in winter they are most
Striking, white as the snow
Set against the black water
Which will not freeze over.
Everything is framed in frozen
Branches and twigs brittle,
Furry with hoar frost coat.
They warm themselves there
Drifting in the stream fed
By hot springs, steam rising.
They have settled in, staid,
Regal in their curve and preen.
It is no wonder that they stay.
Should they now take wing
Belly and breast become ice
Bringing them fast to ground.
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