At Eliburn reservoiryou arrived again —blue unfastened from the air,a bright wound of motion.You took the alder branchabove the bridge pool,body angled darkward,poised at the thin hingebetween surface and depth.Stillness gathered;even water listened.I thought of my grandmother —the quiet way she laid bird cardsalong the table’s edge,aligning them,as if order itself were prayer.Now she has…