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The clouds were squared up in

misted puffs, moving in silent streams,

blocking all evidence of an earlier

blue sky where sunlight passed through

leaded glass.

Hands cut from stone, prepare for the

storm.  Clothes from line are grasped like

children walking too close to fire.  The winds

begin to speak; its inertia not always with

good intentions.  Pillars of scattered wild

weeds hold their ground like sign posts.

The speed of the storm is in a standstill.

Relentless pounding, hammers from heaven.

The earth becomes its anvil for revenge.

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