A bunch of old snakeheads down by the pond carrying on the swan tradition -- hissing inside their white bodies, raising and lowering their heads like ostriches, regretting only the sad ritual that forced them to waddle back into the water after their life under the rocks, wishing they could lie again in the sun
and dream of spreading their terrifying wings; wishing, this time, they could sail through the sky like horses, their tails rigid, their white manes fluttering, their mouths open, their sharp teeth flashing, drops of mercy pouring from their eyes, bolts of wisdom from their foreheads.
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