The sun is warm now, the water of the river undisturbed. Seagulls teeter on the parapet in front of her, boats go by. The line of trees that breaks the monotony of the pavement is laden with leaves in shades of russet. Figures stride purposefully on a distant bridge, figures in miniature, creatures that could be unreal. Somewhere a voice is loud on a megaphone. She moves a hand back and forth on a slat of the seat she is sitting on, her fingers caressing the smooth timber.
The sky is azure, evenly blue, hardly faded at the edges at all. She turns her hands so that the sun may catch them differently, and slightly lifts her head to warm the other side of her face.