endymion

Little breezes dusking and shivering across Stephens Green.
Through the wave that runs forever by the island in the river, Heeler the Peeler is throwing scraps of bread to the ducks.
(Hey Heelers. One of mine surely. - Alfred Lord Tennyson note.)
(Homage. - Heelers note.)
So there I am feeding the ducks.
A flotilla of jostling seagulls is upping the ante.
I'm telling you folks.
Everyone wants to get into the act.
There are water hens emerging out of nowhere to poach some crumbs.
Pigeons crowd the waterside occasionally scurrying through my legs to avoid a particularly antagonistic seagull.
The seagulls will scatter the other birds if they can but with rare exceptions they won't come right up to me themselves.
Abruptly my swan arrives.
He glides like royalty through the other birds and reaches towards me.
I place the food in his mouth.
He looks different.
I don't know why.
He begins to make swan sounds.
Normally he doesn't do that unless he's annoyed.
It's like he's speaking to me excitedly about something.
But he's not annoyed.
It's not him.
It's a different swan.
I look up.
The swan I know has arrived and is gazing at me intently from a position just behind the shoulder of his mate.
He had been alone all Summer.
Now he wants to show me.
"She's very lovely," I tell him.