The puddles in the August sun record a summer squal and if it's not replenished soon, the water will be gone so when a passer-by, sitting on this public bench, sleeveless in the warmth, drinks in luscious greens on hills, and cows cropping grass, there'll be no sign of summer squals, stamping on the ground.
Yet come they will, one day for sure, and sheltering eyes will see the storm, and ears will hear the cries of those
pounded by the sky.
What's been before will be again, and all there'll be are bones.
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