By Von Thompson
Waltzing on water you’d expect swans to trill melodious, notes as graceful as their royal necks. But their call is more trailer park, more curlered head and torn polyester babydoll, Pall Mall Alto. It’s only when they pull themselves out of the water, moving like that mermaid who traded dancing waves for ground glass footsteps, that you see the awkwardness they hide behind that silent slipping rippled grace. You see those too thin legs, too close together trying to hold up a body better built for water than gravity. You’ll forgive me if I remember seventh grade, my first dance, my unrefined adolescent voice and my wish to slip away and leave only ripples.