Seven Swans a Swimming.

Really, no more words are necessary.  

Unless someone can explain to us how this keeps happening.  For the third morning in a row, this has been the sight on the lake.  Seven perfect swans.  One that we know.  Six that we don't.  

And by lunch time each day, only one remains.  And he looks so sad.  Or maybe that's me, assuming that he's been alone for so long that the company must be so nice.

Then Jeff reminds me that they're birds.  Don't tell him, but I still feel bad.

So each morning I rush out, count them and snap a few shots.   I spend the rest of the day hoping they grow to love it here and stay a bit longer.   I'm sure Michael does too.