Coming back from the Kever, motoring along through the Koppoel to the harbour, I saw a cormorant worried about getting its wings wet. It swam about, holding its wings up in the air with a delicate bodily stretch and strain similar to a lady swimming with that certain poise, neck stretched, chin up, determined not to get her hair wet. A mannerist elegance. He looked about a bit and not finding it, took off again. It was getting late, and cold.
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