Twenty-four hours ago,
the wind ran across the lake searching for a place to land.
Some shingles followed, torn from their topless roots.
This morning there is some abuse,
feathers fly on their own,
the mallards are whispering in the huddled reeds,
however, daylight stubbles upright
into a high-rising sky.
The television is predicting clear sight soon.
The radio coughs, and stutters, its talk
flutters...
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