honeymoon ovenbird They didn’t have the means for an extravagant honeymoon but they thought it sounded romantic to go canoeing in the marshlands of southern Ontario. It was May. The world was awake with new life. The magnolia trees were blooming. They thought they would begin their lives together enjoying the burgeoning of spring, their bodies afloat on the water, cattails waving and throwing rice as they glided past. The day promised to be idyllic, sunny with a chance of bliss. They dipped their oars into the algal blooms, watched water striders perform miracles on the wet surface of the afternoon. They coordinated their movements the way new lovers do, everything feeling easy and comfortable and grand. They saw a swan in the distance. A good omen, certainly. What’s more perfect in the aftermath of a wedding than the wondrous white majesty of a swan? They watched the swan take flight. They watched its two meter wingspan block out the sun. They watched its neck swivel towards them, watched its focused eyes lock onto their canoe, watched it aim the missile of its body at their fragile human forms. They didn’t know it was nesting season. They didn’t know that the pristine feathered harbinger of doom hurtling towards their unstable boat had eggs in the reeds nearby. They didn’t know the violence a mother swan was capable of. The bird was on them in no time. They tried to beat it off with their paddles but it kept coming. And so they found themselves facing the first adversity of their married life as they attempted to keep their canoe upright while paddling as furiously as they could. When they reached the far bank and the swan had given up its hissing pursuit they regrouped, panting, sweating, all notions of romance abandoned. It’s misleading, perhaps, to release doves at weddings. Any notions of peace will be short lived at best. It would probably be more realistic to release swans. It’s more important to learn to bandage each other’s wounds than cling to any delusions that love will allow you to escape the world unscathed. 260402 what's it to you? who go blather from