Spate

After a long lunch, we walk through the woods to the river. We had wine with our meal and we're both tired.

The track is steep, icy, and the river is in spate.

Gail's always wanted to see the salmon run, but in six years we've not seen so much as a dorsal fin.

"It should be perfect today," she says, as we approach the weir.

The river is a swollen, ugly mass, its movement almost imperceptible.

A swan, impossibly white against the murky water, rests in the margins. Gail doesn't notice it. Her eyes remain fixed on the weir.