Swans

"There are two swans in the harbour this morning." Says the man. He walks up alongside me and the dogs, keeps pace for a while. He is thin, unshaven, rough-hewn in his clothing and demeanour, has unmistakably kind features and has a looseness around the edges that I can't quite place. I think that maybe he lives on one of the boats, illegally moored forever in the saltwater gorge near my house. He has a plastic coffee cup in his hand - I imagine him rowing himself to shore just now and walking up this path to fill it at the bakery. A watery neighbour. We chat for a few moments, about swans, the morning, and other passing wonders before he moves on. A few feet away, he turns back and tells me about the raccoons in the shrubs up ahead - as if he knows the younger of the two dogs would find that tempting.
There was something easy in the way he pulled up, kept pace, spoke of swans, an unthreatening merging into my space. A gentleness. The older dog turned her head to greet him, the younger too consumed with the crystalline smells of an early fall morning to notice - he is less concerned with making friends out of strangers anyway.
There has been a hitch in my step these past days, and both a sadness and a shock of pain after some recent news from a friend. So many layers, I am both haunted by my own unshakeable mistakes and broken-hearted at the ways people hurt and misread one another. Aching for the sadness and confusion in those around me, and at the same time unravelling from my own dark linens. This is today and last night but I remind myself of the need to hold myself and others close, but not still. We live in a quickly and constantly shifting universe.