Winter is coming

The storks know.  It's been two weeks now that they've been displacing the pigeons around the steeple and out-sizing them in the sky above the town. 

Meanwhile we swelter through the dog days of summer.  

I walk along the river to where the Countirou meets the Hers and dive in at the deepest point.  Three strokes under water and then let the current take me downstream beneath the yellowing poplars.  The banks of the river still smell of ripe plums  emitted by an invasive flower that grows through the sand and the pebbles.  That plum smell makes me sad in August because it signals the end,of the summer and happy in September because we've crossed the border into the new year and the summer's still holding on.

There's a dodgy, shallow bit upstream of the bridge  where large masoned stones trip you up and tumble you over, then the deep water under the seven arches, another wading bit and from then on your feet don't touch the ground and you swim until the large beach and come out feeling like you've been in a trance. 

Meanwhile the storks have occupied every gargoyle on the cathedral spire and a storm is breaking over the hills.