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A flute music evening
floating on a silver note,
Moonbeams tangled in reflection,
snippets of old songs adrift
interwoven with the gauze of stars.

It’s easy to believe in peace
when trees are swaying
almost imperceptibly
and the breeze is warm.
No sounds of thunder bruise the air.

Experience insists this is a lull
and not a way of life.
A distant owl hoots
as if to say
this could be a dress rehearsal

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