An old pond dreams it's dancing with a full moon floating in its arms. Gliding over its glowing skin a swan "sings its capacity as desire"— Swanee, how I love you, how I love you, my dear old Swanee. Walking on autumn's colors past a hollowed-out tree, we are born and die like a longboat sailing on turbulent waters, in which every stroke incubates its succession— even though my mammy's waiting for me, praying for me down by the Swanee.