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Dry Earth Quenched

Dry Earth Quenched
This day dwindles toward twilight, its deeds washed away by a quietly rambling rain I watch from the window. All is quiet—hushed, muted. I hear only the gentle, uneven thrumming of rain drops—
on the roof, against the glass of the window, in the gutter just outside. New leaves unfold from the trees to receive the offering— a flush of green in a wash of grey. Their thirsty roots reach through the ground—dry earth quenched.
I relish these showers, alone at the window—
breathing, absorbing, resetting.
I inhale and exhale as winter’s earth drinks steadily,
slowly, and I watch the world renew itself.

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