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Search either Cheyenne or her sister Crow in the box upper left and you’ll see how often they’ve appeared in this blog.  I took both fotos here last week, Tuesday and Sunday, and over 150 miles apart.  The first one shows a Cheyenne shrunk beneath the cliffs of lower Manhattan, light and moving with purpose, resolve, determination.

Sunday morning in Waterford I took this one.   Saturday night as light was fading, we sitting on the bulkhead heard the plaintive horn that marked Cheyenne‘s approach.  Several blasts echoed off the concrete walls of the lock, and I stepped toward the Hudson to see the vessel dock in the space left vacant for it.

Forgive me for a bit of anthropomorphizing–and I’m not sure what transpired for the crew of Cheyenne in between Tuesday and Saturday–but I imagined  emotional texture in the sound of Cheyenne‘s approach.  To translate that into words, I’d use phrases like “Wait for me . . . I’ve been hurrying ever since I got light . . . save my spot . . . don’t forget me.”  And there was room.  On Sunday Cheyenne took no part in the nose-nose shoving, but I figured the 1965 tug deserved the rest.  And from the reflection in the puddle came assurance that we all had not forgotten.

Photos, WVD.

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