Three days ago, he stepped out of the lake and looked up through the forest to the patch of blue sky overhead. First one, then two more swallows and then a dozen swooped and whirled overhead.
He stood and watched, enraptured by their ballet, and then they were gone.
Was it goodbye?
Were they off?
See you again next year.
That night he felt the first chill of autumn but slept outside nonetheless.
The next morning the chill was stronger.
If the swallows have left, he thought, then he should move back inside.
He did.
The next day he stood in the lake but his legs felt numb.
But today he went to the river, the evening sun and a heron settled on the trees on the far bank.
He dropped his shoe as he undressed and it started to float downstream, so he had to go in.
He did.
He swam.
It was breathtakingly invigorating.
A joy.
After he went to the village, the sun turning the ancient stones into a golden ruin and bought ice cream.
And ate it looking at the castle.
Tonight the owls will call the autumn, but the day will still resist.
Rain is far, far away.
Little more than a hope of an old memory.
A solitary tomato waits to ripen in the morning sun.
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