The sky is burnt venison.
Dense air expectant.
Leaves already screaming.
Winds carve into frantic stragglers
cursing reticent umbrellas.
Lightning is white ink scratchings
across black canvas.
The storm vacuums heat from tar
like some grizzly suckling milk
through a straw.
Pity the tents.
Pity the optimists.
Wait for a timid clearing
and run like hell.
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