cries for days in rampant display,
lamenting the loss of his mate
who strangled on a lead weight
affixed to abandoned fishing line,
circles the mirror lake, searching
for one his constant heart dreads
he will not find. Pieces of bread
are tossed by villagers come to observe.
For weeks he will not eat,
filled only with his trumpeting.
Signs are posted banning anything
that would further trash the waters,
to no avail. Morning proclaims
a piece of junk floating there,
black, unswanlike, and unaware.
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