Last castle tour before an autumn vacation, morning commute. Crossing the Lech, I let the bike coast to admire the chalky green-blue river. In the calm, cool air this morning, the surface rippled like stained glass. Reflected light revealed river banks, garbed in autumn leaves, veiled in mist, and leading to Füssen’s first houses coming into town. The peak of Breitenberg pointed above. The high castle showed bright in morning sun, St. Stephen’s monastery in shadow.

Then came the swans. In April, the nesting pair caught my eye. One rested on the nest of gathered grass amid reedy clumps. The other fed along the shore. In May the cygnet hatched. It was gray-brown, a color like Lech mud. On the way between tours, morning and evening, I watched it grow through the summer. First I’d spot the adults, their white shinning in the waterscape. Only then could I discern the grayling, always nearby, mixed into the color of bank brush. By August, white pointed the gray. Today, its neck was bleached to the waterline. Light plumes streaked the folded wings. The family paddled downstream, the adults before and behind the cygnet.

I braked the bike and dismounted, fumbling for the camera in my pack. A couple shots taken, I paused to breathe the river air. Listened to distant chirps, morning birds. Then, beckoned by the day’s tour, I stowed the camera and remounted.

Foot on pedal, a splash drew my attention riverward. The cygnet footed across the surface, neck outstretched, wings flapping. Leaving the water, it slipped into air. A few quick beats of wings, dappled gray and white, brought it into a silent glide above stained glass reflecting a pure white breast. It tilted into a gentle arc. Slid again into water.

It was over in a moment. A moment without thought. A moment of being. A moment passed in simple witness to nature. A moment of grace.