As I sit on the bank

laced in morning dew

grass, reeds, motionless

and the lake

a pane of blue glass

mutant swans and I

engage in the small talk

of dreamer's hushed voices

interrupted occasionally

by raven's harsh squawks

rudely the swans

poke their heads

under cerulean liquid

leaving me to seek answers

from feathered swan buttocks

can philosophies be progressed

in this cruel

inattentive environment

the swan's stare from beady black

button eyes, no reply

respect lies on the pond's bottom

in the tasty morsels of squirmy worms

no match am I

for competition that appeases

a gnarling gut

I toss a large pebble into their midst

damned mutant swans

I will be heard