I was warned about the sole goose who’s been swimming around the public beach in Caspian. This higher-elevation glacial lake escaped the flood debris.

On the hidden side where I drop my towel, there’s only a couple of teenagers making out on a rock. When I slip into the water, I hear the families and crowds of teens on the distant public beach, the laughing rowdiness of a July Sunday.

The water is far deeper than I’ve ever seen it, choppier, too, but clear and lovely. Although I’m not a strong swimmer, I head far out, beyond the buoyed sailboats into the open lake. The goose bobs along. At first, I hardly notice the long-necked bird, but the floating creature follows me. Our paths nearly collide. We’re so near to each other I’m mesmerized by the bird’s size, its bent neck, the clop and chop of the water against my kicking feet. The beach, the blue sky, the rocky shoreline, vanish. It’s just me and this bird, so real, so unbrokenly true.