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Evening is serenaded
by the seventeen year symphony
even though it’s only been twelve years
since the locusts’ last song.

Caught in the rain of changing seasons,
gentle and misty with the possibility of storm
night wears a gauzy moon
and a hint of clearing.

The smokestacks along the muddy Ohio
will never be mistaken for the Eiffel Tower
but Weirton in autumn holds all the magic
of Paris in spring,

There is a promising, an anticipation
that swizzles the air with excitement,
It quickens the blood and stirs the soul
with gratitude.

Storm or sun,
tomorrow is beckoning.