High summer. The stench of sea-weedin the hard-cured streets, the waterin the river so low that the river-bedis an archipelago of ooze and mud islands. Strangely uninteresting: not even the glintof a pram hood or bicycle wheelto snag and then appall the eye.Where now is the deep, voluminous riverof winter, spring, and early summer?The red corrugated sheds stand clearand distinct at last, no longer foilto their own reflections. Likewise the treesthat weep in the yards that come down to the edgeof the river bank, the houses behind themrightway up for once against a downturned sky.