About a mile and a half from our house is a small lake. This whole area is punctuated by lakes, some of them large and majestic, others considerably more modest. This particular specimen is not much to write home about – more like a glorified pond. One side is bordered by a busy road, another by wooded land, and the last two sides are fringed with slightly ramshackle houses on a more or less forgotten dirt road. It’s not the kind of place you really think about visiting.
There, in the middle of this silly little swampy puddle, is a very small island of branches and grasses. And there, on this very small island live two swans.
They come every year to build their nest. They spend the summer paddling around that miserable excuse for a lake, raising their babies and enjoying themselves tremendously. They don’t care that the porch is falling down on the white house across the way. To these stunning white birds, this lake is the perfect place to call home.
That’s really all we can ask for in life.