At night when the lake freezes, if you really look at the silvering water you can see silent ballerinas dancing their dance in your window snow-globe, the meadowlarks watch them with watchful eyes, we have unloved grief, sadness, loss and melancholy among the quiet whispers and how each night mourns and embraces the next, it's soothing and delicate to watch them spin and pirouette like strange swans made of shadows, things that are forever made of breath.