Longtime readers know about my annual pilgrimage to the end of Cape Cod. The last two days have had June-clear skies and the town is in its preparatory crouch. After the mind-numbing and seemingly endless intensity of the primary campaign, I found myself trudging out to the furthest dunes yesterday and today, finding a spot and just crashing out for an hour or two. I woke to cool evening breezes and dunegrass waving across my face. There's nothing out there. Yes: a few fellow sun-bathers, but far fewer than when July strikes. And the marshes are still low, the water still really cold, and the newness of this scene I've looked at for almost two decades still shocking. I let myself think nothing for a while. Just watched and breathed and lived for a while.
It's good to be back. Good to be home.
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