Glimpses of two horses’ heads, two elephants, two walruses, and a gorilla, their paint peeling; of guava, some crushed underfoot, rotting in the sun; of things in the air: blood-red dragonflies and electric-blue damselflies moving like lasers, planes taking off, two pelicans circling, two mudlarks and one heron; of water: fountain, pond, stagnant puddle, inlet, bay, the sea and all that comes with it, plastic bottles and bags, a tennis ball, shells, broken glass, a dead fish, a glove, a mask, a shoe, seaweed, ships on the horizon; of ships and shipping: maroon, white, green and blue containers moving along the port, stacked like windowless cities; of history: seizing and renaming, cartography, winds and mistranslations; of instructions and reports; of scientific opinions and legal opinions; of lawyers and clearings; of specimens and concepts of nature and people; of words and signs: “real” spray-painted on the side of the bridge, “Public amenities provided by the port authority”, “gulp” carved into the toilet door, “zilch” written in concrete, “Bulk Liquids”, “Flammable”, “Do Not Enter”, “Seagrass habitat”, “How many shorebirds can you see?”, “Parking not permitted any time”, “Keep dogs on leash”; of dogs: running up and down the beach, digging and swimming and barking at planes and birds; of people: a family eating lunch, a person sleeping in a tent, a shirtless man reading a book, a woman on the phone, two marine security men in bright blue uniforms, two boys collecting shells in a bucket; of smells: diesel fuel, rotting wood, guava, cut grass, cooking meat, cleaning product, the sea; of things left behind: a couch, an empty bottle of vodka, a jumper tied around a tree, a used condom, a hat, a computer cable; of what grows, where it can.