I guess just throw it on the compost, this dead swan at the bottom of the road. So much larger here at my feet – a dead, feathered cello, neck bent around to bow a low moan. It was never white, I can see it was a living light, bright silver now brushed with death to mottled grey. Prisms of dew bead the wings – tasting flights of fine oil feeding mites. No prayer here. I roll like a dog in dead words.