As my loyal readers will remember, I was very concerned for my single swan paddling around Otter Pond. Since swans tend to mate for life, I was verifiably worried about his loneliness and future love life. I suggested he head to the American Hotel to find an age appropriate bird of a feather, but no luck. (Male swans stay in their home nest while female swans tend to migrate to Colorado, the last bastion of legal pot and available free men.)
Then, low and behold, on Christmas Eve I found him with his new female consort regally crossing the pond, swimming up to me to capture their love in an Instagram moment #youarethewindbeneathmywings. As I had been working on a love spell for my swan, I felt completely vindicated and satisfied. They happily set flight to Boca for the winter and all was well in the world.
Until . . . he returned to Otter Pond . . . alone. Oh no! What happened, I wondered? All sorts of scenarios ran through my head.
Was it during the flight south where she wanted to take the scenic route and stop at various charming towns along the way to check out local crafts and book stores while he just wanted to fly the fastest route to get to the destination? (Full disclosure: Nova Scotia is lost to me for this very reason.)
Did she think she was going to be on an exclusive, secluded Florida waterway close to the ocean only to discover that she was in a swan condo crowded in what passed for a “pond” on a golf course with poorly pitched nine irons sending balls at her head constantly?
Maybe she ended up in Palm Beach in the swinger swan scenario where an innocent night of bingo goes so wrong and brings out the worst of kinky aviary tendencies. Maybe he was simply a Don Swan seducing her with empty words and wet feathers never to commit.
Or perhaps she felt he was an evolved male with education and concerns for the environment — wetlands free of toxins for their nests and clean air for their flights and safety for their cygnets — yet found herself in Florida at a Trumpeter Swan rally.
Or maybe she was at fault and he discovered she was shaking a tail feather at the Everglades Club at a swan with a distinctive preppy bow tie and a fancier summer nest on Georgica Pond. Or was just happy to draft on his air to return south to hook up with her ex. That adorable little pouty beak of hers was so cute until it yapped, yapped the whole time, wanting him to talk about his feelings. Was there some sort of nefarious fowl play?
And beyond my feathered friends, what about me? The swan’s happiness was my sign from the universe that despite all odds love was possible. It was safe to hope again. Hell, I was even wearing make-up to the car wash. Do I now have to go back to playing “Eleanor Rigby”? Binge watching “Outlander”? Moping around on a Saturday night with some sort of dairy-free dessert?
Spring is still around the corner, and I do not want to embrace negativity. I am going to have to work on that love spell for him and for me. After all, as the great poet Emily Dickinson said, “Hope is the thing with feathers.”