2 December 2004 | Vol. 4, No. 4

Of Foreign Lands and People

by BARBARA YIEN

The day my brother brought me to the pond

of one thousand screaming white swans

it was winter in Akita. I'd spent the morning

trading picture-words on napkins

with the lacquer-box maker and his tiny wife

who took scissors to delicate paper, conjuring

moonscapes and improbable blossoms.

We understood each other perfectly

approximately five percent of the time.

And then this calculus of swans: a nightmare

of beauty gone carnival: so many swans,

so much passionate

squawking and wanting

and so little pond.

I stood among them, blue-lipped and dumb

as the snow fell around me, watching as my usually stone-

gruff brother suddenly began

honking back—softly at first, then

louder and louder, matching them squawk

for tremulous squawk, his thin frame arcing

like a crane's to meet their yellow beaks

inches from his hooded face. The collective chorus

was gorgeous and terrifying as any

one could ever hope for

but I knew not how to answer—I had not even

paltry breadcrumbs—I knew not how to feed

or speak to a single bird of them.