At First Flower of the Easy Day

At first flower of the easy day
a buck went wading through the mist.
Legless, he seemed to sail away.
A brown swan with a mythic twist
of antlers to his changeling head.
All that the weaving Greeks referred
to plastic nature’s shifting thread

he evidenced. I saw him turn
and dip his head into that pond
and flash the white flag at his stern,
then lift his head and sail beyond
an isle of spruces to the right.
What do we ask of any wraith
but the Greek fact in its first light

that makes of morning’s beasts the day
our nights would dream if they knew how?
Starting from this dawn, I could say
sad Io’s name to any cow
and have her eyes confirm my guess.
Unless her farmer came like Zeus
and waved me off his premises.