air so heavy with moisture that every breath begs for rain
vain hopes that the sky would empty at least for a time
and walking would be easier without the hot wet drape
clouds could return to above where once they belonged
the crows know something, as they throw their cawing back and forth
doomsayers on chimneys, sentinels on powerlines, guardians in fields
they wait but in anticipation of storm break? a murder, a murder, a murder
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