At the Reservoir Before Dawn

Before the city remembers its name, the reservoir lifts a pale shoulder through fog. Reeds comb the dark with their thin bronze fingers, and the water keeps every broken window of the sky.

A train passes somewhere behind the hill, its iron murmur sewing the distance shut. On the path, last year's leaves soften under rain, small envelopes still holding the scent of smoke.

Light arrives slowly, like a hand unfastening silk. The surface trembles, then gathers itself to glass. Two ducks write brief black strokes across the silver, as if the morning were practicing its first sentence.

I stand there until the houses begin to wake, until chimneys loosen their blue threads into air. Nothing is solved, only clarified: the world filling cup by cup with visible breath.