The river was silent on a day with sunlight, humid warmth, and tourists encumbered with their cameras, ice cream, and shopping bags filled with shopping-bag-things. Water-taxis made their westward way along the course of the Chicago River, and I walked above one of them, camera in hand. Merchandise Mart stood to my back: the core of downtown Chicago loomed ahead of me, veiled behind a faint haze of car-farts and water vapor in thick, atmospheric suspension. It was hot. It was moist. Tourists with ice cream didn’t care. Nor did I. On a hot and humid day, walking above the largely-silent river, I saw the strut-work and rivets of a familiar bridge. I saw rust and paint in the color of rust. I saw rivets and flakes, sunlight and shadows. I heard el-trains rumbling overhead; I did not hear the river. Someone—a stranger, a tourist, a cute tourist approached, passed and vanished; the sound of flip-flop sandals slapping heel and instep wove into a perfect, urban demonstration of the Dopplar Effect—and for a moment, I thought of Carl Sagan’s PBS television series Cosmos demonstrating the same thing. There were no cute tourists in sandals in that demonstration, but on one particular day (decades after Cosmos aired) moments in time were linked, and something I’d learned reasserted itself in the most unexpected of ways. This photograph is a marker of that moment: it was a happy moment in sunlight above a silent river. As always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting, and I hope you’re all having a great week.