Across the placid water they glide, Necks long and elegant, Poised to dip beneath a surface That's smooth as their unruffled backs, But dark and gleaming, holding secrets. One looks me quietly in the eye and circles, More in hope than expectation. A few turns of its brown, webbed feet, Are all it deigns to make. Its head ducks down, Comes up with weed In reproach to my failure To meet its unexpressèd need. It chuckles water through its bill. The canal remains both dark and still.