A mother can

A black swan knows what it is.
Knows not to be confused by identifying 

Itself with others.

It has listened that below an icy surface 

The swan can stay afloat like a steamboat.

The trees surrounding the lake are 

Leafless skeltons of themselves,

Arch over the water reflecting a wanton 

   pattern,

Fingers being wrinkled by swan children 

Following the mother.

It's a dark water.

The bevy goes just so to cross where there

Is food so as not to disturb a peace

That's clearly in the picture of the lakes 

   nature.

Perhaps bread is on the other side 

And maybe admirers. 

The swan will look over, not taking flight

As much as when it was younger 

And too busy in motherhood for distractions.