By S. E. Reid lake-cold is its own moment,a sleeping aquifer yawning underfootinvisiblebut we can feel it; this wateris thousands of years oldand yet we—finite things—swim unaware in eternity,dragonflies dodgingin the heavy summer stillness. the dogs shake,glitter flies,fish dart away from our kicking feet, and up high,the humming planes look down on usswimming breast-stroke through…