I think, as I write, of reflections on the lake, plants and birds lying weightless on its polished surface like perfect offerings to the light they came from. There is only a handful of places left on earth where thrombolites still live and grow. In their precariousness they point not only to life's origins but to the darkening edge which all living things must eventually reach. I think of that time at the end of each day, when the black swans fly in low from the south, necks outstretched. They look like a line of long stitches which night pulls to its far shore, that shore running like a seam through the twilight silk of sky and water.
