[I read it here]

As I crossed the bridge the other day, I saw what I first took to be a branch, swept along in waters swollen by never-known weeks of Occitan rain.

But then I realised that I was looking at a pair of antlers borne by a stag.

There is no way for me to know if he fell into the river or chose to be there, but as he passed beneath me there was no fear in his eyes.

Swimming with the flow, rather than against it or across it, he held his head high and raced on towards a fate unknown.