And so the rain comes, a soft patter from the west. Certain fields go without deer. A quartz perspective, a sense of rising.
Bored crows pick at a dead third where the road turns. We enter the future blind. Slick rainbows, a popping sound.
The rain crescendoes mildly between maple leaves. Crickets scurry beneath tufts of woven grass. Your shoulders, the lines on your face.
One bares her chest, another her soul. Behind the clouds, stars, and beyond the stars, God. I can't remember the last time I saw a deer there.
An ancient mirror, mummified snow. Roads darken as the rain falls harder. Be wary of the impulse to correct a sweetness.
We long to be right. Or not alone. Or dry at least, when it rains.
Sentences elevate existence. Ours.
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