Driving down Victoria, mid-morning, I see a vee of geese, low, flying in towards Victoria park, black against the pale heat of the sky, the last of summer.
Suddenly three of the middle geese tumble downward, cartwheel. The whole skien ravels. They start to cry, a huge noise. Quick dark shapes, like weaving shuttles they put their pattern back together, fly on, still singing. It's only a second or two, only a glimpse. I think wind sheer, then revelation.
Suddenly, a smell of frost.
