We left the dock in three kayaks with the dog foremost in one -- or rather foremost sometimes and in Trudy's lap most of the time. We left the dock and paddled out into the current.
It was late afternoon. The sun was shining in a partly cloudy sky. A wind was blowing up river as it often seems to do. We crossed to the other side, turned out backs to the cliffs upstream, and headed with the current into the breeze.
Along the southern shore, under spreading branches of ancient Cypress trees, under bridges with traffic and joggers running overhead, around the island at the base of the railroad trestle, past the mouth of Barton Springs where the water grows shallow, we worked our way toward Auditorium Shores.
You could hear the music from a distance, then the performers, then the cheering crowd. From the water we couldn't see the stage well, but we could hear the music along with the other kayaks and canoes and boats around us.
The acts were short: after two songs or three the next artist would come on stage. But the songs made us rock as we paddled out into the middle of the river and turned to look back, joining our three kayaks together. Someone new had just come on, and she told the audience to look at each other and say, I love you.
I love you, David. I love you Ben. I love you, Guinness, Trudy said.
I love you, Trudy, I said.
I love you, Ben. I love you Guinness.
I love you Trudy. I love you Guinness, Ben said.
I love you, too, dad.
Guinness wagged his tail.
The breeze had died down. The sun was beginning a clouded descent into pink. It was time to leave the music behind.
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