Isaias is coming.

Headed up the coast of Florida and predicted to hit the smallest point of Georgia that dares seduce the sea, on Sunday evening.

At high tide. On the night of the full moon.

It has, by now, been downgraded to a tropical storm.

But we did not know that hours ago.

Hours ago, the grocery store was packed with people stocking up on water. And batteries. And all of the little things that help us feel in control.

I was doing my part. Hours ago. To assert control.

Armed with my rake and bucket, I removed leaves from the street. Moss from the sidewalk. Cleared the storm drains.

I was doing my part, to ensure that the storm surge, predicted to pose an issue, had somewhere to go when its posturing and bravado faded and it was ready to retreat and call it a night.

A woman with a rake is to be trusted.

She is told (and tells) secrets unsolicited.

She volunteers, to the neighbor restoring the sweet old house across the street, that she has noticed a small pack of dogs settling in for the night, underneath their house once the crew have left for the evening.

This revelation is met with gratitude and understanding. The owners have heard growling, questioned the origin, been apprehensive about crawling under the house to work on foundation issues. Not sure what they would find.

The neighbor catty corner, pulls alongside her in his car on his way to work. Asks her to keep an eye on his place while he is gone. He is having issues with a roommate who is moving out.

The woman with the rake, clearing a path for undirected angst, realizes, that even though there is no news coverage, little storms, some which will grow bigger, some which will deescalate, are brewing in everyone’s lives.