EDITOR’S NOTE: A version of this column appeared earlier in The News.

The wind came out of the west-northwest and was funneled into a course, the one the river carved. It moved through the trees, the reeds, the stumps, the cattails, causing them to sway, then moved on across lily pads, around curves, and into bays. I was standing there watching, panning the river’s expanse from west to east, as far as I could see in either direction.

I could discern five different wind patterns sculpted on the water’s surface: waves just short of whitecaps, a chop but with no roll, major ripples, then smaller ripples sufficient only to ruin a clear reflection.

Lastly, a surface that was calm.

All these differences were identifiable, their boundaries discernible, the product of the wind, or of its absence.

The swans, those guys required to make such exertions in takeoff, whose wings flap, hitting the water for tens of yards before slowly lifting off its surface — I felt sorry for them having to work so hard to get where they belong.

But this day, their fight for flight is aided by the wind. They are aloft, and graceful before my expectation. My God, what beautiful creatures they are!

Above the swans, showing off perhaps, are the big Canada honkers. They were off into this wind and up more quickly than the swans, soon above them, moving faster, sounding as they pass.

In open portions of the river, the waves come against the bank making slapping sounds before they settle. In the partial protection of a bay, they are diminished — no longer do they slap. Instead, they tuck themselves under logs, slide into the diverse vegetation, enter caves and crevices among the rocks and stones. There, they ricochet back upon themselves, turning a slap into a clucking, gurgling sound. It’s like the noise from a child’s gluggle jug when, after the milk has been poured, the pitcher is quickly brought upright again.

I listened to those sounds for a while.

I have always liked hanging around the river, as did my childhood friends. I had cousins who lived by the river, and those cousins had friends who had friends, all of whom came together, as kids do. We explored and fished the expanses of the river behind the fairgrounds and the cemetery and swam from the beaches located there.

We probed Sportsman Island’s paths, scrutinizing them, discovering secret hideaways.

We swam, too, by the railroad bridge — there, with Anna Belland. She, tougher than the boys, stronger than the current.

Louie had an old wooden boat, one with an ancient outboard motor that would occasionally, sporadically run. It was in that boat he, John, and I first encountered a swan up close. Only the fortuity of the outboard’s starting allowed our successful retreat, and my now being able to tell you about it.

Go get a boat with an outboard or not. You can rent one. Any type will do, except a fast one that makes a wake. Grab your PFD and head out on the river into its waves and ripples, into its peaceful sounds and places. Get with the geese and the swans — but not too close!

Go with the wind into the reeds, the cattails, the old stumps. Hear the songs of the birds who make their homes there. Go in the lily pads and under the trees, whose branches droop into the water’s current. Listen to the slapping, clucking, gurgling sounds.

You’ll find solace and more in the sights and sounds on the river.

They say real treasure pays dividends that enrich, refresh, and renew.

I know that to be true, for I have spent time on the river.

Doug Pugh’s “Vignettes” runs weekly on Saturdays. He can be reached at pughda@gmail.com.