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Captive,
in a soggy tent,
I hear the incessant,
syncopated rhythm
of raindrops on canvas;
beating fast, beating slow,
accentuated, at times
by the scream of the jay
and twitter of the finch.
Their song seems to foretell
the end of the rain, but
inside my canvas drum
the sound remains the same.
My thoughts turn to my work
halted by pouring rain.
I hear the lonely owl —
expectantly,
I wait.

 

 

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