The reservoir gives firstat the edges—ice unseaming, grain by grain,until a dull lip of watershows.Cold light skims the surface.A gray sheet shivers,carrying broken skyin piecesthat won’t hold still.Mist pulls itself upfrom the bank,dragging the smell of thaw,of last week’s leavesgone sour.Then swans:white bodiescutting the darkinto long, clean strokes.No hurry.Not ceremony either.Just weightplaced carefullyon water.Behind them,…