At dawn the swans stitch silver seams
Across the lake’s unwrinkled dreams.
They float like thoughts that learned to glide,
With moonlight tucked beneath each side.
Their necks compose a question mark
To ask the day, still blue and dark,
While feathers hum a quiet joke
The water almost, nearly spoke.
They gossip with the reeds in white,
Sip secrets from the edge of light,
Then drift—so calm it seems absurd—
Like punctuation, soft and curved.
And when they leave, the lake looks wrong:
A sentence missing all its swan.
