Beneath Bruised Skies
The wind, a ghost with an unseen hand,
Whips grit and dust across the Oklahoma land.
It carries the smell of ozone, sharp and cold,
A story whispered, ancient, bold.
You feel its tug, a constant plea,
A playful push, then suddenly,
A heavy cloak of pressure drops,
As every buzzing insect stops.
The sky turns bruised, a sickly green,
A painted...
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