River of dreams.

The afternoon had been a disjointed dream sequence; a series of passing tableaux that stood still and faded into the next scene.

The Murray River: a slow-moving curve of sun-mirrored innocence, its destructive October spate having moved along slowly and currently drowning a bunch of farms near its estuary hundreds of miles away in South Australia, from where Charles Stuart’s 1830 expedition to find a route to the sea had failed due having run into impassable sandbars. The crew had rowed the craft back upstream - against the current - 440 miles. I gazed at the silent deadly flurry in the middle of the river and knew why the crew had toiled in shifts, stopping for only an hour a day.

Later. Silent drowsy mid-afternoon with dragonflies: a poolside lounge chair and a sketchy biography of actor Peter Falk, the book a series of mediocre anecdotes before a vaguely interesting section in which the actor collaborates with John Cassavetes. 

Then, early evening: corellas, a million screaming feathered prehistoric avians descending on the sunset-gilded riverbank treetops like a Sidney Nolan painting set to raucous music.

I looked at the time: five to eight. There were calls for food. The hell with all this transcendent mid-summer lethargy: we'd blown dinner. Everywhere in town, meaning the eat-in pubs and restaurants, takes last orders at eight or eight-thirty. I flew down to the main street and ordered enough food for five from The Foreshore Takeaway just before that closed as well. We dined - the recommended Toc Soecial Burger was the size of a small rivercraft - on the hedged lawn at the rear of the motel room drenched in an orange sunset and toasted with cold sauvignon blanc. 

It was still thirty celsius at midnight and distant thunder echoed across the great flat flood-prone landscape.

Kingswood Lodge Motel. 22-26 Jelly Street, Tocumwal, New South Wales

 The Foreshore Takeaway. 15 Deniliquin Rd, Tocumwal, New South Wales