We're away from Robin but not far from the water. I just took a break from my current project to walk down to the Delaware River, a bit more than a block to our northwest. The wind was blowing the treetops here, but on the front lawn, surrounded by Monica's hydrangeas, now turning antique pink, it was blazing hot and still. I found Zippy, the cat, under some of the shrubs and gave him a pat and a few words. Then I struck out for the river.
I noticed that the sky was filled with clouds, some billowing white and lit brightly by the afternoon sun, but some -- to the north and west -- dark as a windowless closet with the light off.
It looked as though fat raindrops might fall any minute to splatter in the hot lawn and driveway dust.
But it's a short walk to the river -- actually the Delaware estuary -- and when I arrived, I saw that both the wind and the water were flowing upstream. This meant no whitecaps, as the wind, apparently 12 to 15 knots, flattened what waves there were, giving the surface downstream, where the sun in its orbit now hovered, a look of hammered gold.
The wind sock on the boat club pier just downstream was stretched full of air, and the river water was nearly up to the ramp, now horizontal, that leads from the pier to the floating dock. Out on the river, eight boats from 19 to 27 feet rode tamely on their moorings, some pointing down into the current and wind but those farther west, and closer to the sea, apparently beginning their semi-daily rotation as the early fingers of the ebb tide tugged them sideways.
A power boat closer to the far side of the river made its way upstream. Standing on the near shore above a stone bulkhead, I was shaded by a sprawling oak, and the breeze was cooling and carried the smells of fresh water.
I only lingered a minute, not long enough to be bothered by deep thoughts, only the time it takes to be thankful for water and for boats that float on it.