In a little partitioned-off space at the back of the house, I stand, naked, on the slatted floorboards. With a large hollowed-out gourd, a cuia, I dip water from a barrel, and sluice it over myself. Early morning bird song from the backyard trees.

Detail from "Flowering Orchard"

José Maria has filled our two barrels with water from the blue Tapajós River. Ocean tides affect the Amazon here, some 500 miles from the Atlantic. At high tide muddy Amazon water flows up into the mouth of our river. He watches for low tide. He brings the water in two kerosene tins hung on a stout pole across his shoulders. This is all the water we have.

Rufina comes back from market. Her basket is filled with fruit, just- caught fish for dinner, vegetables, and a small loaf of heavy dark bread. Now she brings me abacaxi, the sweet fresh Amazon pineapple, along with toast, guava jelly, and a large cup of Brazilian café com leite. It is made with powdered milk. I long for fresh milk, for thick cream from a Kansas dairy farm.

A clapping of hands at the little front gate of Floriano Peixoto #4. Visitors. Two ladies in long black dresses come in. They speak little English. I speak almost no Portuguese. They ask if I have children-- shaking their heads when I say no. They already know the tall Americano, Senhor Bruce, is my husband. They know he oversees collection of wild rubber to be shipped to America for use in war production. They know he travels upriver in a small red launch, the Jangará. They know he is away. They ask how much rent we pay--$7. Way too much!

I am astonished when one of the women tells me her mother was born in Louisiana. Later, I learn of a group of southerners who came here after the Civil War. They hoped, naively, to re-establish plantation life. But now we drink cafezinho, the tiny cups filled almost half full with brown sugar before the coffee is added. We shake hands. They leave. I never see them again. It is 9:30 a.m.

the air, heavy my neighbor's toucan calling for the daily rain