The Swan

by Maxwell Huang

I never get tired of seeing swans.

To me, there is no better word to describe a swan, in its brilliant alabaster plumage, than angelic: a symbol of grace, beauty, and elegance, the best and most sanctified of human values. I fervently hope that Nature intended for the man and the swan to be connected, for the swan to frame itself in the human eye in a way that stirs something deep within his soul. An angel for man to watch with starry eyes, his own life Forgotten.

These thoughts wandered meditatively in my head as I stepped cautiously through the mangled roots, clad with sunset-colored leaves, towards the lake. It was a biting fall morning tinged with rolling silver fog, eerily quiet with the sparse shrill calls of birds and crickets hanging in the crisp air, creating a chilling ambience tinged with spiteful cold. By all logic, any swans should have drifted away several weeks ago with the last remnants of the velvety summer breeze.

Squinting through the trees, I glimpsed the lone silhouette of the old willow tree peering at me through the mist. Perched on a cramped clump of land roughly halfway across the lake, its shape was barely a sketch against the low-lying haze, a wisp of smoke in the arms of the ambient greenery. On better days, I can see arched branches reaching towards the shore, their leafy clothing shed, showing their bare and gnarled forms pockmarked by time. They have given up their feathery and weeping leaves to the icy air of changing seasons, and those that remain have yellowed into shriveled amber husks drifting pensively towards the still water, searching for restful death.

I was still studying the tree when the swan broke the horizon.

The swan was a terrific sight soaring over the pines, so close that I could make out its brilliant chalk-white coat shimmering in the morning fog, gliding like a kite over the shallow mist. And yet, with my breath caught in my throat, I found it painfully clear that something was amiss. I could see strands of chalky gossamer feathers splayed out from the curve of the underbelly and standing up on the back of the neck, tattered and trembling in the wind. Every time the swan lurched towards the lake, heaving its outstretched wings, the motion was strained and slow, as if the crisp fall air around it had suddenly turned to molasses. I swallowed hard, flinching from the radiation of pain – universal, immense pain – that spilled from the white body above.

Soon enough, the swan rolled back its head, twisting it around desperately until it could do so no more. Sweeping wingbeats grew fewer and fewer, drowning in invisible syrup, before stiffening and holding still. The swan had become a prisoner in its own body, forever preserved in the coffin of its last stance. And for one moment - one beautiful, terrible moment – it hung in the sky, frozen with me, a snow-white ornament decorating the air for the last time, no longer an earthly creature but a dying angel of nature’s creation. And I knew then: this moment, wind whipping around me on that cold fall morning, frosty air spilling from my open mouth, would be forever nestled deep in my memory.

The swan began to fall, dropping like a heavy stone, limp and lifeless, plummeting towards the water — but it never felt the embrace of the lake below. Instead, by some wild coincidence, the discarded snowy form dropped not into the clear waters but directly towards the craggy tendrils of the crooked willow tree below. As it tumbled back towards the waiting ground, I turned away in horror from the arching branches almost seeming to beckon it, greedy and hungry for any contact with the world, hoping to claim another for itself, seeking to feel the touch of another creation —

A moment passed. Slowly, I turned back around.

The willow tree remained unchanged, arching branches hanging over the water, dying leaves swaying and falling in the wind. It stood as solemnly as ever, as if it had never met the swan after all, and never would.

But they had met, for beneath the willow’s knotted feet the ivory body lay, a dazzling flash of angelic white against the dreary fog, never to move again. Its chalky plumage shone bright against death, unmarred by its descent. The swan rested blissfully beneath the branches cowering overhead, which seemed to be not a deadly garrison but a gentle protector, watching over the body and making sure the remnant of a life was given the dignity it deserved. I suppose the arches finally had something to reach for.

As I took in the sight of the swan resting beneath the willows, I felt my heart tremble with a deep sentiment towards Nature, awe and horror tumbling about together, admiration and hatred blended into one. I realized then, as the portrait of death glowed across the lake, that every being was but a drifting and helpless leaf in the broad river of life. That Nature has blessed all with its gift of life but can tear it away in the blink of an eye, keeping its most brilliant leaves for only fleeting moments, content to let them wash away towards death’s door. And so there we stood, the swan, the willow, and I, dying leaves in the current, resigned to Nature’s will, and destined for the end.

An amber willow leaf fell from its branches and meandered towards the ground, gently landing on the outstretched wing of the resting swan. More would follow. In time, they would cover it, and then become a gentle blanket guiding it back into the earth, transformed into a gift of life for others. The willow, protector of the swan in death, would remain alive by its energy, accepting that which sought its comfort as part of its vitality. The willow would live. The swan would rest. The world would go on.