Another river swollen with the feet
of swans who failed to migrate
to a lake.

Floods my sleep, floods against stars
burned into blackness. Space
is a cold thing,

but this water, even farther from the sun,
is colder. Only the fear of freedom
keeps it flowing.

They should have known the forecast,
their feet now frozen but not
their blood.

Alive in quiet destruction
and unmoving.