There are perhaps 20 days in any given year when the masses descend on our river and stir it up to a rolling, boiling agitation. Then Sunday evening begins to spread and slowly they fade away back to their garages, slips, and homes and the river begins a long stretch back to ease. Such is its repose this morning, languid, quiet, sleepy. And we get the other 345 days, she, and us alone with all the wild things. God is good. God is great. Let us thank Him.
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