Diary

The swans came in the morning's sunshine.

From today onwards they tend to come and congregate in the pool outside my window.

And the male swans fluff themselves up like battleships, and bear down endlessly on the females, who make their escape. And then who, eventually, in response to unknown signals, give their mates their assent.

And afterwards they really do this beautiful dance, their necks often meeting each other in a sign of the most perfect harmony.

And they often really do make the heart shape that features on the front page of Mr. Google's search engine.

Usually it all goes on for hours and hours, these endless sexual advances, and the males in particular seem inescapably obsessed by the need to procreate.

There's something both grotesque and touching in this constant, inescapable urge to keep life going, and I wonder how much it spurs on our own inexhaustible urge to creativity.

And how it became perverted into an equally inexhaustible urge towards self destruction...

But today it doesn't last long. Clouds soon cover the sky, the air is filled with fierce snow flurries, and the wind endlessly torments the surface of the water.

And now in the gathering darkness the pool is deserted. The swans have gone.