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A Hurricane Can Cast its storming color-load (wavelengths of gleam and bruise) to trouble us full days before wet actuality, and whipping scene. My father and his father told of this, time after time. But I was slow; I couldn't see the stars already racing off to leave us here, in wakes of pinkened shift. It's fifty years before a person seems to get the drift: the storm in us is nothing next to the storm we're in; and the storm we're in is plainer yet: it's simply nothing next. So there we have it. Every generation, brand new disbelief. And through it all the thread of someone crying, someone trying to escape—we've got a mind to turn the channel, fool the funnel, sing a song about The Truth. The eye, after all, is raised. From space it looks so peaceful, so aloof—a meteorologist's mandala! But heavens aren't where people live. They live down here. And down here people drown on roofs. 88 ...

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