The reservoir at Drift.

It is evening.

Deserted picnic benches, fishing signs.

Tension – depths of dark water,

a high retaining wall.

I walk along the parapet.

I look down.

I look across.

On the far shore a dead swan lies

breast blown, rib cage exposed,

feet blackwebbed leather,

a far scattering of feathers.

Hurried...

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