Of course—the little trumpeter swan
was born
and bred
not to bother
much with flying, but instead—
to spend her time communicating
as big
and important of things—as
no other vessel,
no instrument
or utensil
or other creature on wings
could ever dare
accommodate or conceive!
But eventually
the strain of trying to hang on
and to render
such stuff
proved just
too dizzying
and just too tough;
and she slipped
and toppled down
from the huge mountain
of her best-selling
discursive methods.
But at that moment,
the truth—
so far
as she could see it
from the pretty incredible
view on the way down—finally dawned
that there was really
nothing out there
larger than life was.
And it was only then—
that she finally
was able
to rediscover
the one single partial—the open pitch
she felt
she was actually
destined to sing!
And then—
just to blare it!
with no thought whatsoever
concerning the best
or most effective way
of writing the thing down.
