I latch the beagle to her blue tie-out under the windmill, then slide into the canvas lawn chair. Leaning back into the padding, legs spraddled out, my body remembers  the cool Atlantic breezes of Mers-les-bains.  The brightly painted seafront houses of Le Treport where we could just walk up to the wharf for moules or croissants. Somewhere near the top of the windmill, metal clinks softly as the wind chinks the blades forward. I slink even farther down in the chair as I feel large muscles release, remember how we raised glasses of Stella and wine to toast those slow afternoons. How the air sang through our hair on that waterfront patio. I hear the slur of waves murmuring as my beagle chews on a pine cone, here on this clay dam, at lake’s edge on our high hill above the Licking River.