The reservoir is all locked in.

Its tessellations enfold the old grain tower,

which is no longer free to dance, hopping, in and out the edge of the water

as it usually does.

The tower is left over from the old city,

which is now shrunk down in its new place —

hope you chose well,

you’re not going anywhere,

at least not until Spring.

Still there is some surface movement:

vehicles creeping and squeaking to their important places,

a train whisking through town,

red lights winking

over across the sweep of the lake,

on the pale grey mountains.