The Cormorant

It was warm today, but only outside. It was windy too. Pliny and Nostradamus decided to go to the beach.

When they emerged from the dunes onto the windy beach Pliny turned the colour of a person who wishes to be elsewhere. What are you thinking? asked Nostradamus, who already knew.

So they went to West Lakes instead. It was windy there as well, but warmer than it had been on the beach. They walked along the narrow path at the edge of the lake.

The wind blew patterns over the ripples on the water. Ripples on ripples, triple ripples, quadruple ripples, as though the wind were a feather duster.

Low bushes edged the gardens of the close-packed houses overlooking the lake. Photinia with pink flowers and bees. Lantana pushing through rosemary, hibiscus poking through proteas. Diosma, alyssum and geraniums the colour of tongues. Palms. A boab tree.

Decaying pontoons rocked in front of the gardens. The wind whipped the water into little green macaroons, some of them topped with a white froth cherry, spat from the mouth of a frog.

A bay, a strip of pale sand, and some rocks. A young family playing, well clear of the unpredictable water. Pliny and Nostradamus followed a wide cement path to the limits of public access. Just then the sun emerged from a high grey cloud, which darkened to ominous black. A glittering burnished path shone momentarily across the wine dark lake.

On the way back, they saw the same things, from behind. And a cormorant up to its neck in the water, which swallowed it suddenly.