Feet and feathers

36°

I stepped out of the bedroom and onto a little liver.  
Bernie Sanders looked like an apostrophe, asleep on the landing surrounded by goose feathers.
I couldn't pin the blame on him for the little liver, but he was unequivocally guilty of the state of the pillow.
The town was heaving with market goers.  Those who come early get the shade, those who don't park up on edge of the road leading to the river bridge, their cars convecting heat and bright light. 
We chose the river.  It was a no-brainer. We crossed the current down stream and found a deep pool.
The river is excitable, A promiscuous mountain river with no control of its actions, jumping from one bed into another; unreliable and inconstant.  We know that this pool won't be around in a year's time, so made the most of it.
Having no respectable summer clothes, I have to compensate by having clean hair and the shower I took before going to work undid all the good of the river.
I ushered hot, tired kids into a hot shuttered classroom and put Titanic on.
I watched them as they watched and realised that for a year I had taught eyes, foreheads and hair and never seen their faces.
It was a relief to get back to the shade of the moulin although even the green here is getting dusty..