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71 August Heat Now the rain comes sheeting. The storm’s black shoulder heaves its worst: crush of thunder like the movement of troops, guns and trucks cracking in their battalions. Light strobes across the low ceiling of clouds. The wind shoves its chest to the summer trees and they lift whipped arms, gather up a silvered skirt of leaves, resist and twist, embrace. Hail’s mad clatter on tin gutters, the crazy arc and bounce of indiscriminate damage, battering song haphazardly scored, and the cool— I will open my window to it. ...

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