I got to the pond before dawn. Above the pines there was the glowing orange of promise. The sun would be visible in moments now. I could smell the water. Two herons were at the deep end of the pond, still as a portrait, watching me. The red-winged blackbirds fluttered into a tree above me, squawking at my presence.

I walked some in the grass along the banks. Finally I retrieved a rod and put a topwater lure on and cast out beyond the tip of a felled tree that has yielded fish consistently. Cast, retrieve, cast. No bites yet. Beyond the tips of my shoes, I glimpsed two turtles connected, one atop another, just inches below the water’s surface. My movement startled them, and the mounted one took them into deeper water.

The promised sun showed itself above the pines now and a soft breeze picked up. Cast, retrieve, cast. Still no bites, and the day promised to bring high temps and a punishing sun.

At lunch I decided to take a break and get a walk in. I snapped some photos of trees I found beautiful, despite the dry days of late.

We need rain badly, but for now it is simply hot and dry.

When I returned to the water, a fellow soldier was jogging around the water. He was muscular, barrel-chested, with red hair and freckles. He looked like what I imagined an adult Opie Taylor would have looked like had he become a bodybuilder.

I completed a reading of Helprin’s collection of short stories, A Dove of the East and Other Short Stories. Helprin is remarkable on multiple levels. He’s a prolific author of literary fiction; he’s a seasoned soldier; he’s a political conservative; and he’s one of America’s finest living writers. His stories are unlike anyone else’s I know of. One might be set in NYC and the next one is set in Tel Aviv. Like Helprin himself, his characters are well-traveled, well-read, and unafraid.