THE WHITE JET
- Share via
The morning’s grown so still,
A jetstream spreads upon
The surface of the lake
In consummate detail,
Fanning out behind
Like the trail of a paddling bird.
As it swims across, you find
You’re all but able to make
The creature out: rare swan
Of swans, the white jet--
But a ghost-swan that can unveil
A rich billowing wake
And leave the waters unstirred
May be more marvel yet.
*
From “The Odd Last Thing She Did” by Brad Leithauser (Alfred A. Knopf: 84 pp., $15 paper)
Sign up for The Wild
We’ll help you find the best places to hike, bike and run, as well as the perfect silent spots for meditation and yoga.
You may occasionally receive promotional content from the Los Angeles Times.
