A hiss of wind through pinions
The only sound they make;
Wingtips skimming sullen waves —
Daybreak on the lake.
The mergansers are passing through;
A spear of zebra snow
Lancing through the rising mist,
Silent as they go.
Tooth billed, hooked beaked and ravenous,
They arrow through the mere.
There’s many a carp in Candlewood
Will see no spring next year.
And I shall wait the whole year through
To hear their whirring hum;
The whispered call that mergansers
To Candlewood have come.