Morning like a glass of clear water. I take the first sip. Everything has become a poem, lately, even sleeping, which feels like being curled on the forest floor with creatures coming by to investigate what or who I am.
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Rain comes in quickly, almost instantly, first as damp wind and then water gusting, sheeting, pouring, drenching. The power goes out and the kids stampede upstairs to play in Isaac’s room.
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