Spring

Green tree branches hanging over the Rhone. Ducks swimming between tree stumps in the water. A swan stopping near the shore to preen, its beak straightening out long feathers and nestling into fluff.

Behind me a man calls his son,
"Come, look, a swan!"
But it's not so easy to get a little boy's attention.
"Look! Look in the water!"
"It's a swan?" The little boy thinks it over.
"Is that . . . is that like Swan Lake?"
"Yes," his father says, and the boy starts singing a ballet melody. He has a good ear. I hear the song move down the bank. The boy wants a closer look at the swan.

The boy isn't quite sure of the song, so he keeps starting over again. Each time, the melody is a little different.
"You know, that's not from Swan Lake," his father tells him.
"It's not? But it's, it's . . . " something I can't hear.
"That's not quite the same thing"
"Well, sort of!"
"And you shouldn't bother the lady. See the lady? She doesn't want to hear that song"
"What does she want to hear, then?"
"She wants to hear silence. She has lots of things to think about, so she needs silence to reflect."

I turn around to say that it's ok. In fact, hearing a five-year-old kid singing ballet music is adorable. But it's too late. The boy stops singing. He spends a little time throwing rocks and sticks into the river, while his dad retreats up the bank. Then, reluctantly, he goes back up, too.

The swan is done preening. It stretches its neck and spreads its wings. Then it swims away, down stream. Two ducks crash land into the water. Birds chirp from the trees, and the breeze blows softly.