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I heard the boat whistle blow on Sunday afternoon, more than an hour after I had thought the last run had departed.
It was a perfect moment, no one there who would be overwhelmed by my overly-friendly retriever who, much to my amazement, came when I waved to her a bit later.
The shore surprised me, wide and quite sandy, if with a lower profile than it had before the storm.
It felt rained upon, but so had I when I had stood beside the road near town earlier in the afternoon.
The neighbor had been over that morning to tend to a chore that would have to be done sooner or later and, from my perspective, the possibility of a storm was a good reason to get it over and done with before Labor Day.
We did not know what would happen; we agreed there had been some of that undefinable air of something approaching a day earlier, but that odd sensation had blown away by Sunday.