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Page A drake mallard dabbles in the backwater below the old weir while a moorhen stalks across a debris-strewn bar of silt. It's been a dim day and the dimmer late afternoon is sliding into darkness. The bare trees and sparse verges of dried grasses and wayside plants are suffused in a translucent smoky-coloured atmosphere. On the canal a smoky-plumaged cygnet swims in sedate close formation with its parents; the pen forward, the cob aft. They glide across the calm dark surface which is dotted in one or two places by small patches of wafer-thin ice. They veer around towards the towpath to face us. The cygnet calls in quiet, high-pitched notes while the cob grunts softly at us.
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