THE WHITE JET

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)