They’re ridiculous things, swans.
I haven’t yet been able to get a decent photograph of one doing anything but begging for a tidbit.
Just once I’d like to capture one of them waltzing past as they do, with one leg on its back, foot aloft like a giant tail fin, paddling with the other, face dead ahead, looking through the corner of its eyes like a little kid on a bike shouting “look mum no hands!”, or the way they arch their wings together over their backs like ballerinas in Swan Lake. Perhaps they really did inspire the ballet.
In life they appear undeniably elegant, often not so on "film" perhaps they are just ill-proportioned relative to the frame of a photograph. Perhaps I should just keep trying.
In any case, we wandered a bit further down the river yesterday in a not unpleasant drizzle, to Lamarche-sur-Saône, where we tied up alone against a small stone wall and spent the evening wondering among other things, about how many other people were tonight in a place where wild swans gathered for a chat at one’s living room window.
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