The swans must be debating if this is a lake or an avant-garde art exhibit.

The black swans moved with a kind of deliberate elegance that made the entire landscape feel alive despite its starkness. The water’s surface shimmered faintly in the afternoon light, mirroring the gnarled branches of the drowned trees. These trees—frozen in time yet still defiant—seemed like the perfect companions for the swans’ quiet journey. I couldn’t help but feel as though this place had been waiting for them all along. The air was heavy with stillness, broken only by the faint rustle of a distant breeze. It struck me how even in desolation, there was beauty—a kind that didn’t demand attention but simply existed, unapologetically. The swans floated on, their dark silhouettes cutting through the mirrored sky beneath them.