The swan waded onto the bank and lay her head upon her back. Her weak wings folded close, she watched as the first flakes of snow breathed a chilly life unto the earth. The setting sun seemed to set the land on fire, flames dancing on the surface of the lake. The dying swan ruffled her feathers once, twice, then stilled again. A low warble sounded from deep within her layers of snow-white feathers, full and whole, placating the rustling leaves around her.

Then came the hymn, strange, ethereal and manifold. With unspoken sorrow and fragile beauty it courted the silence of the creeping night. Notes dancing gracefully in the frigid air, the song groped into the stillness, the darkness, searching in vain for company.

And still the snow settled around her, a blanket of grey against her beautiful plumage. The song carried into the skies, bidding the time before she dies, singing to the reaper who peers into her heart, examining the ruin of broken vows from which the river of song thus flows.