August 7th, 2006, 8:41 am

Birds of a feather

Today I had lunch with a swan.

There she sat, snugged into herself, along the banks of Canal Street, her feathers loose, like dander around her on the impossibly green grass.

“Madam,” I said, tearing off a piece of my orange, “Would you care to join me?”

“Merci,” said the swan - for she was a worldly swan who had travelled and had many great adventures - “Merci, but I cannot accept. Your gift is too much for a lowly swan such as me.”

“Surely you jest,” I replied - astonished that this, a creature of grace, could not see her own beauty.

“I have no talents,” she said mournfully. “Only this - to sit, and to look. I peck at my feathers. I catch bugs with my bill. My canal is full of beer bottles and garbage, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. I am hopeless.”

This angered me. “Surely, you can see the beauty in what you do? Your life is simple. You appreciate the small things. Why, here you are enjoying yourself, while I carry around maps and laptops, planning and meetings and spreadsheets and to do lists? The canal is polluted yes, but I do nothing to stop it either. Why should not I be as depressed as you?”

“Perhaps you are, ” said the swan quietly. “But that is no reason you cannot enjoy your orange. Sit with me for a little bit. Perhaps we’ll come to a conclusion. Perhaps we’ll run away together. Perhaps we’ll get a flat here in Dublin, where we’ll live out our days with a tiny patch of flowers, and hopes one day for a bigger TV. “

“Perhaps we shall,” I said, tearing off a bit of bread, and dipping it into a jar of peanut butter. “Merci.”

And we sat for a bit, along the canal in Dublin, she with her feathers, and I with my meal.