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Welcome to Swan River
Not to be confused with a Swan Lake.
More like Game of Thrones: Waterfowl Edition.
So there I was, minding my own business, when I spotted it.
Swimming and swimming,
gliding right past the joggers,
the dog walkers,
the old couple feeding bread they definitely weren’t supposed to bring.
It passed them all.
And came straight for me.
A swan.
Floating like royalty.
With the kind of energy that says:
I don’t pay rent. I am the rent.
Most birds?
They see a human and immediately hit the eject button.
They get scared.
Pigeons waddle off.
Ducks paddle away, quacking a passive-aggressive goodbye.
But the swan?
No no.
The swan approaches.
Some birds are just built different.
And mute swans?
They’re the final boss of waterfowl.
- Light
- Ethereal
- Practically mute. (Not even a peep from this one.)
- Unapologetically territorial
- And absolutely not scared of you
In fact, they think you should be scared of them.
Swans are what happens when nature builds a Victoria’s Secret model, then gives it the soul of a nightclub bouncer named Karl.
The swan does not beg for your attention.
It demands it.
It doesn’t ask you to stay.
It dares you to leave.
They will fiercely protect their nests, their mates, their cygnets,
and, most importantly, their dignity.
Naturally, I tried to get a closer look.
Naturally, I asked the only logical question:
Am I the Swan Whisperer?
I mean, what are the odds?
Out of everyone on that riverside, it chose me.
Like some feathery oracle whispered:
“There. That one. The chosen.”
This one saw me and simply could not pass me by.
It swam closer.
Stared into my soul.
I felt seen.
Judged.
Possibly... approved.
Nope definitely, approved, I passed the TSA check.
I stuck my hand out to greet her.
A peace offering.
A gesture of goodwill.
AND SHE TRIED TO BITE ME.
Not a playful nibble.
Not a curious peck.
A full-on, jaws-wide,
death-from-below attempt to claim my flesh.
For a split second, time slowed.
Hunter recognized hunter.
Our eyes met in that eternal moment,
two apex predators sizing each other up.
And with my keen senses
and Bruce lee level ninja reflexes
(the kind they write legends about),
Thankfully, I escaped with my life intact.
(Then, of course, I did what any rational human would do:
I reviewed the footage.
Frame by frame.
CSI: Swan Unit.)
What was she after?
The answer revealed itself:
Hard to believe...
Her beak,
her trajectory,
the physics of her lunge,
all pointed to one horrifying conclusion....
Swan-jaws jaw's snapped shut right where it would’ve been.
She was after my ring finger.
A millisecond off, and I’d be typing this blog with nine fingers.
One can’t help but admire the delicate approach.
The slow glide.
The neck?...much...much longer than most birds, but still arched like living calligraphy.
Coming closer… closer…
You almost think she’s there for a polite “hello,” a gentle nudge,
maybe even a blessing.
But then,
You see it.
That switch in her eyes.
The soft shimmer of curiosity hardens into something else.
And then you get that feeling, you know the one...
As if she was planning a ritual behind my back.
A surprise attack.
Sacrificing my finger.
The target-lock system engages.
And in that split second,
she transforms,
From swan…
…to guided missile.
Fuck it. Black Swan mode activated.
So yeah, next time someone tells you swans are just “elegant water birds,”
tell them about the one who tried to redecorate me.
Because out here at Swan River?
It’s not just nature.
It’s combat.
So here’s your warning:
Next time you see a mute swan, remember,
Sure, they're quiet.
But don't let that fool you.
They’re calculating.
They don’t flee.
They confront.
Wild? Yeah.
Crazy? Maybe a little.
Thrilling? Abso-fuckin'-lutely.
Guided Missile Crash Course: (Warning: Will Squish Brain)