“Who looks upon a river in a meditative hour and is not reminded of the flux of all things?” ­­—Ralph Waldo Emerson

The river is a mere hour away by car from the cosmopolitan city of San Francisco, and yet here we enter another world. Fields of corn climb to the sky, sunflowers spring up beside the road, jackrabbits hop through straw flowers alongside the crops. In the waterways, children float in inner tubes, families enjoy dinghys and sailboats. At night, the river humidity dulls the sparkle of the stars, and the sky comes in close.

We congregate here with friends and family. Our family brings friends; our friends bring their family; and friends bring friends. They bring children—the boys tall and delicate as fawns, the girls more sturdy and compact at the same age.

Our troubles and responsibilities dissolve on the river. Our concerns wash away and float back to their source. Our talk is smaller than small. It is minuscule, really.

“Hot today, isn’t it?”

“Yes, oh, very hot.”

“But there’s a cool breeze.”

“That’s what saves us.”

And somehow it seems an important conversation. It matters how each of us experiences the heat because we care about each other. We feel connected, and that is no small thing.