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A felonious aberration,
that soft pink sky turned red
with morning,
the innocent flowering
of dawn gave little warning.

A disingenuous incantation
that first faint rumble of thunder,
the distant streaks of lightning,
stagnant breath like some malingering
snake oil salesman

hovering, hulking,
lugubrious in the July noon.
Then that cold air,
austere, bereft,
invading the atmosphere.

The warring gods attack,
obtuse and cruel they duke it out.
Beguiled by early morning’s smile
we hunker now, waiting
for the storm to end.

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